


Take MOPP Off As Directed

by derryderrydown



Series: MOPP-verse [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Take Clothes Off As Directed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Directed-verse Gen Kill. Because conversations with <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/surexit">surexit</a> result in things like this.</p><p>I can't thank Petra enough for her sterling beta and American-checking work. One day, I'll remember to just do a global find & replace for round/around.</p><p>(Unfortunately, while I was jiggling chapters around to come up with the single-chapter end product, AO3 deleted all previous comments on this. I'm so sorry to the people who commented - I really appreciated all your comments!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take MOPP Off As Directed

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Take Clothes Off As Directed](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7268) by Helenish. 



They survived their first Scud attack and they're all high on the adrenaline of knowing this is going to be a real war, not a fake-out, and that's when Reporter decides to say, "Is it awkward, being the only sub in the battalion?"

Brad doesn't narrow his eyes, or sit up straight, or even _look_ at Ray, but his attention's focused.

"Hell, no, homes," Ray says, with an easy grin. "It's fuckin' _awesome_. Another couple weeks of this shit, and I might even stand a chance with Rudy."

Rudy doesn't pause in rubbing moisturiser into his neck. "Sorry, brother," he says. "Another couple of weeks and you'll smell even worse than you do now."

Ray sniffs at his armpit and recoils. "Shit, don't think that's even possible."

"But do you get treated differently?" Evan persists.

For just a moment, so quick that Brad might have imagined it, Ray looks serious, but then he grins and says, "Hey, if all these big, butch tops are willing to take a bullet for a poor, dainty little sub like me, I ain't objecting."

* * *

They're dug in by the canal and Brad's on his way back from a meeting with the TLs when he hears Ray saying, "Back the fuck off, Trombley," and stops where he is. 

On the other side of the Humvee, Trombley is way too close to Ray, and Ray's getting right back in his face.

Trombley sighs. "I'm not up for your bullshitting games, okay? Just sub up and bend over."

"Did you fail remedial social ed?" Ray demands. "Yeah, I sub, but I choose who for, and I sure as _fuck_ don't choose to sub for you."

It sounds rote, like it's something Ray's had to say too often, and Brad flexes his hands. He knows Ray can protect himself, but he shouldn't fucking _have_ to.

"So back the _fuck_ off, _Lance_ Corporal," Ray's saying, and if Ray's pulling rank then he must be more worried than he seems.

The seconds stretch, and then Trombley mutters, "I'm not desperate enough to make you behave," and leaves. As he turns, he sees Brad, and he hesitates for moment. Brad doesn't say anything, just stares, and Trombley keeps walking. He looks back occasionally, stumbles as he does so, and Brad keeps watching until Trombley's lost among the victors. Then he heads to the other side of the Humvee, where Ray is kicking the tyre, face twisted with... something.

"Does that happen a lot?" Brad asks, and nods in the direction Trombley took.

Ray looks at him like he's retarded. "Did you have your eyes shut all the time we were in Mathilda? Stick a bunch of horny devildogs in a desert with about three subs and of fucking course we get hassled."

"I meant from Bravo," Brad says, and Ray shrugs.

"What can I say? I'm just too fucking irresistible. When they're so desperate they'd try to top a field 10, anyway." He's trying hard to make it flippant but it's not.

"More than just Trombley, then?" Brad says, and Ray sighs.

"Leave it. I can handle it, and you getting involved'd just make it worse. Besides, it's no worse than it was in Afghanistan."

In Afghanistan, it'd been hazing of the new guy, and Brad had joined right in. In Afghanistan, it'd only happened on base. As soon as they were out on their own in hostile territory, Ray was another Recon Marine who'd proved he had the right to be there.

In Iraq, they're spending most of their time Oscar Mike in hostile territory. It's a waste of Ray's energy and situational awareness if he has to protect himself from his own team.

"I've got a suggestion," Brad says.

Ray tilts his head, looks up at him.

"Wear a collar."

Ray smiles at that, eyes crinkling and dimples showing, and it's a relief to see the frown slide off his face. "Yeah, right. Everyone knows I'm single, so it's not like I can pretend my top back home FedExed it to me. And if I haven't got a top to back it up, I'll end up NJPd."

" _My_ collar."

For a moment, Ray just stares at him, and then he starts laughing so hard that he ends up on the ground, leaning against the Humvee's wheel. "Jesus fucking Christ, Brad! That's even less believable than me having a secret top back home."

"I'll back it up," he says.

"Homes," Ray says, and holds out a hand. Brad takes it and hauls Ray to his feet. Ray pats Brad's bicep before taking a step back. "Even fucking Encino Man'll know that you're just doing it to protect me. And I don't need protection."

And, no, Ray doesn't need protection. But Brad wants to protect him anyway.

* * *

Now that he knows, Brad can't help keeping an eye out. And Ray wasn't kidding when he said it wasn't just Trombley.

If it was just Trombley, life would be simple, because under Brad's frosty glare, Trombley has backed right the fuck off. Brad's pretty sure he was only hassling Ray because he thought it was what a Recon Marine should do. Trombley tries to hide it but he's crazy about his sub back home.

Ray doesn't spend too much time with Manimal, but he never did. He stays well away from Griego, but they all do that as much as possible. When Schwetje or McGraw shows up, Ray's always with Rudy or Walt or Brad himself.

And Ray doesn't sleep.

None of them do, not real sleep, but Ray doesn't even snatch a nap here and there. He's living on adrenaline and Ripped Fuel, and his supply's going to run out one day.

It shows when they're out tracking down the lost officer. Ray's losing his edge, a split-second delay here and there, and Brad doesn't want to think about how it'll be two, three days down the line. Doesn't want to think about the delay growing, about Ray getting to a point where even luck can't save him, but he has to. Brad can't have his RTO crash and burn.

"I'm collaring you," Brad says, as they're digging their graves.

"I'm pretty sure I have to agree to it," Ray says. "And I don't."

"Yes, you do. And I'm talking as your team leader."

"If it came down to rank, I'd be warming Encino Man's grave by now. Which would be twice as horrific as it sounds, because he'd need Casey Kasem there, telling him what he was supposed to do."

Brad puts his E-tool down. "It's having a negative impact on your combat effectiveness. As such, it's having a negative impact on your team's combat effectiveness."

"No." Ray glares up at him. "I'm the first sub in this battalion. I'm not going to give up and go scurrying for fucking _protection_. How's that going to look to subs coming in?"

"I don't give a fuck about future subs!" Brad's voice is too loud, and he has to take a deep breath. "Look, if you don't want it to be me, how about I have a word with Walt?"

"Walt's got enough without having to worry about fighting off my admirers. Especially when I can do it just fine by myself." Ray starts digging again, slamming his E-tool in too hard. "If you just want me to sub for you," he says, and Brad has to strain to hear it, "I will. You don't have to make up excuses for it."

"It's not that," Brad says, but there's a flashing row of images in his head. Ray on his knees, grinning up at Brad. Ray blindfolded, hands behind his back, and still talking and insulting and making Brad _push_ for everything he wants. Ray sprawled bonelessly next to him under the cammie net, head resting on Brad's thigh.

"Didn't think it was," Ray says, and Brad can't figure out what's in his voice.

* * *

Ray has just sat down, ripped open his peanut butter, when Brad says, "Ray, go and top up my water."

He doesn't even hold out his half-full water bottle, leaves it sitting on the ground between his feet, and watches Ray stare at him. After a moment, Brad raises his eyebrows.

A heartbeat. Another one.

And then Ray pushes himself to his feet, takes the couple of steps to Brad's water bottle. And he doesn't just bend over to pick it up. He kneels. In front of Two One Alpha. He glances up at Brad and it's only for a second but it's long enough for Brad to see, _I know what you're doing, you fucker_ , on his face, as clear as if Ray had spoken the words out loud.

Ray doesn't say anything, though. Just picks up the bottle, stands up, and turns to walk off to the water cans.

Brad watches him go, then turns to Walt. "I want you driving when we move. Trombley, you're gunner. I want Ray to get some sleep."

Trombley smirks. Walt looks relieved. Evan frowns, glances after Ray, then to Brad, but doesn't say anything.

When Ray returns, he tosses the water bottle at Brad, but doesn't say anything about Brad being a lazy fucker who needs to get off his hairy fucking ass occasionally. Which, from Ray, is practically kissing Brad's feet.

* * *

They've shifted position twice so far tonight, and Ray's grumbling, a steady stream of invective, as he digs yet another grave.

"I'm going for a shit," Brad announces, and he isn't especially surprised when Ray tags along after him.

"You _fuck_ ," Ray says in a hoarse whisper.

The flares are bright overhead, but it's still nowhere near enough light for Brad to see Ray's face. Or for Ray to see Brad's, which is why Brad lets himself smile. "You said you'd sub for me."

"I didn't mean in fucking _public_."

Brad wonders what the point would have been if they'd kept it private, but he says, "You could have refused."

The silence stretches, and then Ray mutters, "Fuck you."

* * *

Brad has his grave dug by the time Ray wanders back, and he's lying on his back with his Kevlar tilting his head forward so his chin is on his chest. He watches the movement of darkness against darkness that's Ray desultorily scrabbling at the earth, and says, "You're sharing my grave tonight."

"Huh?"

"You're wasting time talking when you could be sleeping. Come here."

Ray takes a moment to fold up his E-tool and sling it back in the Humvee, before crawling into Brad's grave. Brad has to wriggle onto his side for Ray to fit, ends up with his left arm under Ray's cheek and the other draped over Ray's waist, with Ray's Kevlar trying to break his nose.

"I can't believe I'm the little spoon," Ray says.

"If you weren't such an undergrown runt," Brad says, "you wouldn't be. Your whisky-tango mother should have given you real food instead of bathtub moonshine."

"Fuck you," Ray says, "my mama fed me the finest roadkill in the state."

"Sadly," Brad says, "I believe you. Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep."

There's five, ten minutes where Ray doesn't talk, and Brad would normally be asleep by now, but Ray is twitching in his arms, constantly shifting position, tensing different muscles, swallowing, and finally Ray starts to sit up. Brad holds him down.

"I'm not gonna sleep," Ray says, pushing against Brad's grip. "Might as well stand firewatch, let Trombley get some sleep."

"Trombley slept today. You didn't."

Ray breathes out a laugh and relaxes back against Brad, and Brad has to turn his head to the side if he doesn't want to wipe his snot on Ray's Kevlar. "Seriously, man, I am so fucking high on uppers that I'm not going to sleep for a year."

Brad doesn't let himself think about it too much. He just shoves Ray's MOPP jacket up, and pushes his hand into Ray's pants, inside his briefs, around Ray's hardening cock.

Ray jerks, moves to get away, but Brad murmurs, "Stay where you are," and, after a tense moment, Ray settles back down. "Good boy," Brad says, and Ray's cock twitches in his hand.

Ray's body is drenched in sweat, and the plastic mesh inside his MOPP scratches Brad's arm. Brad can smell him, two weeks of unwashed sweat, piss and fear, and in a sensible world, it'd be enough to send Brad for the disinfectant. 

This is not a sensible world, so Brad brushes his thumb over the head of Ray's cock, and Ray fucking _whimpers_.

If Brad had thought about this, he'd have planned a quick, efficient jerk-off, enough to knock Ray into sleep. But something slow, lingering, driving Ray crazy, will let more endorphins flood his body, will stand more chance of making him stay asleep for at least an hour. So Brad keeps his touch light, drifts his fingers down Ray's cock, and Ray starts swearing.

"Be quiet," Brad says, and Ray obeys. At least, he does until Brad pushes his hand further down and cups Ray's balls, at which point Ray starts cursing again, a litany of profanity that grows gradually louder until Brad squeezes hard, and Ray's head jerks back. Brad only just avoids a nosebleed from Ray's Kevlar, and he knows his irritation is in his voice as he says, "I ordered you to be quiet."

"I'm trying, I really am!" Ray sounds desperate. "Please don't stop. Please."

"Will you shut up?"

"Yeah, I will." Brad can feel Ray squirming against him as Ray moves to bite down on his own arm, and it gives him an idea.

"Hang on," he says, and props himself up on his left elbow. It gets his hand close enough to press over Ray's mouth. "Fuck," he says, amused, "I've wanted to do this all week," and Ray licks his hand, sloppy and just the right amount of disgusting. "Revolting hick," Brad says fondly.

He can't get enough pressure to really gag Ray effectively, but Ray pushes against Brad's hand, gagging himself, and Brad rewards him by tightening his grip. He leans down and murmurs into Ray's ear, "Time for you to do the work, you lazy fuck."

It takes Ray a moment to get it, but then he starts thrusting into Brad's fist. His cock, slick with sweat, slides easily, and Brad tightens his grip a little more, listens to Ray's breathing getting faster and heavier, and then Brad lets go. He feels Ray's jaw clench against his disappointment, and Ray pushes his mouth tighter against Brad's hand.

"Do you want to say something?" Brad asks, and Ray shakes his head. "Good boy," Brad says, and uses the flat of his hand to press Ray's cock against his body. It pushes Ray's ass against Brad's cock, and Brad gives an experimental thrust, but quickly gives it up. The plastic and carbon inside his MOPP is not conducive to frottage. Maybe, he thinks, when they're ordered out of MOPPs - and then he remembers that this is just a one-off to get Ray to sleep.

With that in mind, he wraps his hand back around Ray's cock - not too tight and not too loose, just how he'd hold his own cock when he wanted a no-frills jerk-off. "You know what to do," he breathes into Ray's ear, and Ray does. It's less than a minute until Ray's breath is stuttering and he's whimpering again, and Brad knows he should punish him but it sounds so fucking good that he just lets his middle finger slip into Ray's mouth, and Ray bites down on it, hard, as he tries to swallow his own noises.

"C'mon," Brad whispers. "Let it go. Come for me."

And Ray does, shivering in Brad's arms, teeth fucking _sharp_ on Brad's finger, until all the tension is fucked out of him and he's lying boneless and sated against Brad.

Brad takes a deep breath. "Think you'll sleep now, you drug-addled little shit?"

"Fuck, yeah," Ray breathes against Brad's hand, and Brad reaches up, nearly spraining his wrist, to stroke the line of Ray's closed eyes.

"Good," and Brad's settling back down when Ray tenses up.

"What about you?" Ray says, and starts to twist around to face Brad.

"Did I tell you to move?" Brad snaps, and Ray stops. "Back how you were." A moment, and Ray obeys, but he's still taut against Brad's hands, ready to shift. "I'm good," Brad says. "Go to sleep."

"But-"

"That's an order."

A pause, and Ray says, "I'll get you back. When you're not expecting it."

"You can blow me in Baghdad," Brad says. He shuts his eyes, and tries to sleep.

* * *

It's nearly dawn, the platoon's starting work on getting oscar mike, and Ray's still curled up in Brad's grave, snoring. Brad's going to have to wake him up. 

He doesn't want to, and he tells himself it's because Ray needs the sleep if he's to be combat effective, and not because he looks kind of cute with his head resting on his hands and his mouth open.

But then the LT approaches. "How the fuck did you get him down for the count?" he asks, and Brad smiles.

"Sergeant's secret, sir. Can't go letting the officers in on all our little tricks."

"I need you to get him up and moving," the LT says. "TLs meeting in five, we're Oscar Mike five after that."

* * *

The rest's done Ray good. He's manic and demanding but he's on the ball and he knows where they are and what they're doing and what's ahead. In the balance of things, Brad thinks that makes up for the fact that Reporter's going to tell every Rolling-Stone-reading pussy about his Big Gay Al impression.

Fuck them. He's got his RTO back.

And then Trombley shoots a couple of kids and the balance gets fucked to hell and back.

Ray joins him under the Humvee, and doesn't even bother bringing a mallet. Brad doesn't look at him as he says, "Even you can't talk the sabkha off. Get a fucking mallet, you lazy little shit."

"Nah," Ray says. "I'm here to sleep."

Brad turns and looks at him, and Ray's eyes are wide with mock sincerity.

"There are marauding tops out there, Brad! I could wake up to find Trombley's cock in me or something, and not even Saddam deserves that, so your favourite RTO sure as fuck doesn't."

"Ray," Brad begins, but Ray ignores him.

"He is so fucking fired up, homes, you wouldn't believe it. I mean, he looks creepy-psycho at the best of times, so now he's got a couple of actual dead babies under his belt, instead of just the ones in his imagination that he fucking masturbates over, he's pretty much off to dig up Alfred Hitchcock's corpse so he can audition for the remake of Psycho."

"The kids aren't dead," Brad says, and gives the underside of the Humvee a thump that vibrates down his arm and even makes his shoulder hurt.

"Which is probably the only reason his cock isn't in me right now," Ray says. "I swear, I'm about to offer myself up to Aubin to thank him for that casevac stunt."

"It wasn't just Aubin."

"I know. I'll go around in turn. Doc, Q-Tip, Stiney- Fuck, do you think Reporter being there was why Godfather gave in on the casevac? Because I'm not kneeling for any fucking liberal commie dicksuck reporter. I have _standards_."

Brad puts his mallet down and tries to stop the smile that's tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're not kneeling for any of them," he says. "You're mine for the duration, remember?"

"You could share," Ray says, hopefully. "Aubin's kind of hot."

Brad drops his mallet on Ray's belly. "Not happening," he says. "Now clean up the Humvee before I make you do it with your tongue."

"My tongue's made for better things," Ray says, and starts half-heartedly banging at the sabkha. "You'll find that out." He turns to look at Brad and winks, _leers_ , and Brad shoves away the thought of the shot kids, of the shitstorm that's going to fall down on him for it, and just rolls over and kisses Ray.

Ray gasps into his mouth, drops the mallet to the side, and pushes back against Brad. It's a sharp reminder that, yeah, subs have sex drives too, and it's not just the tops going without out here.

And, really, fuck it. Just fuck it all.

He unfastens his pants, shoves them down around his thighs with his briefs, and Ray's doing the same, fast, flustered movements, and then Brad rolls onto his back, pulls Ray on top of him, and thrusts up against him and, fuck, _yes_.

Ray's breath's coming fast and hard against Brad's neck, and Brad grabs Ray's hair for long enough to pull his head back, to start kissing him again, and he skins his knuckles on the bottom of the Humvee, realises that Ray's ass must be pressed up hard against the chassis, but Ray's not complaining and Brad'll give a fuck about it later.

Brad comes first, biting down hard on Ray's lower lip to keep himself quiet, and Ray lets out a disappointed little whine, writhes against him, and then shudders through his own orgasm.

Brad keeps his eyes shut as his breathing slows back to normal, doesn't open them until Ray wriggles off him.

"You're just the same as all the other fucking tops out here," Ray says, but his voice is too lazy for malice. "It's all about the cock and the orgasm. Where's the dominance, homes? Where's the _effort_? I'm not feeling appreciated."

Brad pulls up his briefs and pants - which feels pretty fucking disgusting - and says, "I'll appreciate you when you keep the radios working for two days straight." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and rolls out from under the Humvee, hoping he doesn't look too obviously fucked.

"Fuck you," Ray calls after him. "At least I get them working again, which is more than your over-educated fucking faggot-brain can do!"

Brad bends down to look at Ray. His eyes are bright, his mouth's wet, with visible teethmarks where Brad bit him, and he looks far more fuckable than Brad's ever seen him. "Get moving clearing the bottom of the Humvee," Brad says, and walks away.

* * *

He finds the LT walking back from battalion, and says, "Sir, can I have a word?"

The LT looks exhausted, body and brain. If he was one of Brad's team, he'd be in the back seat of the Humvee, ordered to sleep, but it's not Brad's call. "What is it, sergeant?"

"I need to report that I've entered into a relationship with a member of my team." If Ray was above Brad in the command chain, this would be far more complicated and invasive, full of official counselling on how to keep their private life away from their work life. As it is, it's just a couple of forms to sign and Ray confirming to the LT that he's not being coerced.

The LT looks relieved that it isn't anything more serious - no more shot civilians, no victor that even Dirty Earl's given up on, no mouth-to-ass disease. Even so, he sighs. "It might take a couple of days to get the TS-2483 forms over," he says. "They aren't priority."

"I understand, sir."

"You and Person, just write out something covering the same ground and pass it on to me. I'll sign it off."

"Thank you, sir."

"And - congratulations."

Mike Wynn waits behind as the LT walks off. "Jesus, Brad, you don't think the LT's got enough on his plate? You couldn't have kept it quiet for a few weeks?"

"No." Brad lets the word hang between them, then adds, "You know why."

Mike does him the courtesy of not pretending otherwise. "I guess so. Well, as the LT said, congratulations. I think."

"Thank you," Brad says.

* * *

They're halted, waiting for Bravo Three to clear a hamlet up ahead, when Brad tosses the notepad to Ray, his own approximation of a TS-2483 on top. "Write up your own version and pass it back," he says, and goes back to lazily scanning his sector.

There's a second while Ray reads over what Brad's written, and then he says, "...the fuck?"

"They can't get the forms," Brad says, without looking away from a kid with a couple of goats, who's staring right back at him. "Write your own."

"You told the fucking LT?"

"Of course." Brad makes a face at the kid. After a moment, the kid grins and makes a face right back at him, before turning and walking off, dragging the goats with him. Brad looks over at Ray. "Regulations."

"Yeah," Ray says, "for a _relationship_. This? This is not a relationship. This is-" He waves his hands, sketching out the vague shape of whatever he thinks this is, before settling on, " _not_ a relationship."

"Are you fucking me around with one-night stands, Ray?" Brad asks. "Because I don't think that's very fair. You know I'm emotionally vulnerable." And, fuck, he just loves rendering Ray speechless.

"You are a _shit_ ," Ray finally says. "You are a stone-cold, MRE-induced, rock-hard, three-ton pile of _shit_."

"And this is a relationship. Sign the form, and promise the LT that I'm not raping you."

"I fucking hate you," Ray mutters, but he's scrawling something on the notepad.

"Watch your sector, Trombley," Brad says without looking around. "And, Reporter, if any of this ends up in _Rolling Stone_ , I will rip off your nuts and shove them so far up your asshole that you can taste them."

* * *

It's not the things that have changed that are weird. It's the things that have stayed the same.

It's Ray running on at the mouth, Reporter writing down every word, until it's rubbing Brad's nerves raw and he has to ask Ray to stop. (Ray has always responded to requests. It's orders that he usually has trouble with.) It's Ray keeping a spare tin of Copenhagen for when Brad's has fallen somewhere into the depths of the Humvee. It's Ray somehow cajoling a jalapeno & cheese out of somebody in H&S, presenting it to Brad with a sweeping bow and doffed kevlar.

It's Brad bullying Ray into sleeping and eating. It's Brad rewarding Ray with his Big Gay Al voice when Ray's done something particularly useful. It's Brad keeping back a roll of the soft toilet paper, just for Ray.

It's singing stupid songs together, and carefully crafting insults for each other, and Brad watching Ray frown in concentration as he coaxes the radio back into life, licking the connections and practically _caressing_ the wires, until they hear Captain America screaming over the air, and then they look at each other and share a grin that locks out everybody else in the Humvee.

Sometimes, it's hard to identify what _has_ changed.

Brad has permission to touch Ray now. To physically drag him away when he's vibrating with energy, peering over Dirty's shoulder into the engine, to pull him down into their grave and hold him there until he passes out.

But that, Brad thinks, he could have done before. It's just an extension of taking care of Ray.

What's changed is that, sometimes, Brad will look at Ray, and Ray will be looking back, and his expression will be soft. And he'll blink, slow and heavy, and tilt his head down, just slightly, just enough to say so _fucking_ much, and there'll be heat in his eyes and he might bite his lower lip a little.

And Brad thinks there might be the same heat in his own eyes, as he wipes his thumb over Ray's cheekbone and passes him the peanut butter from his own MRE.

* * *

It's the day after Delta showed up, Walt and Trombley are introducing Reporter to the luxuries of a POG camp, and Ray's on his knees in front of Brad, head bowed and hands clasped behind his back.

"The fuck?" Brad says. He had no idea Ray even knew what traditional sub behaviour _was_ , never mind being capable of _doing_ it. And doing it without running his mouth off, at that.

"Permission to speak, master," Ray says.

"Granted," Brad says, and hopes he doesn't sound quite as stunned as he feels.

Ray stays looking at Brad's boots. "This sub was wondering if the offer of a collar still stood."

"The fuck?" Brad says again.

Ray looks up at that. "Because Delta are a bunch of fucking _shits_ and I am so fucking _bored_ of having to beat manners into them."

And, yeah, that's the Ray Brad knows and tolerates, so he shrugs and says, "If it'll help."

"Cool," Ray says, and shoves himself back to his feet. "You can beat them up for a change."

* * *

By midday chow, Brad's wrapped a piece of duct tape around one of the plastic cuffs they use to secure prisoners, something like an extended, extra-thick cable tie. He's left enough of the tape dangling to form a tag, and written 'Property of Sgt. Brad Colbert' on it.

While his team's making orgasmic noises over Rudy's hoarded Starbucks, Brad leans against the Humvee and whistles. When Ray looks up, Brad points at his feet. With a glare that promises later retribution, Ray saunters over and kneels. He keeps his head up and his hands by his sides, and Brad considers encouraging him into the fucking textbook-perfect sub position of a few hours ago, but decides against it.

But when Brad pulls the makeshift collar out of his pocket, Ray takes a deep breath and drops straight back into the position. The only thing out of place is that he's biting his lower lip - probably, Brad thinks, to help him keep his fucking mouth shut.

Brad doesn't say a word as he fastens the collar around Ray's neck, carefully checking to make sure it's loose enough it won't affect Ray's breathing, tight enough it can sit easily under his MOPP. Once he's content, he clips off the end of the cuff, and runs his hand over Ray's hair. He meets the gaze of each of his team in turn, and says, quietly, "Mine."

Word'll spread to Delta. Brad doesn't share.

* * *

Ray's got the radio's donkey-dick slung over one shoulder, half the handset disassembled and draped over the other, and he says, around the three cigarettes in his mouth, "Hey, Brad, need a word."

They've been halted in the cigarette factory for half an hour, and Brad and Rudy are the only men in the platoon who don't have cigarettes in their mouths. Poke's been heard to mutter something about how Gina will kill him, but it hasn't stopped him from lighting up.

"Lose the cigarettes," Brad says.

"You're not the boss of me," Ray says, but, at Brad's raised eyebrows, he lets the cigarettes fall to the floor and grinds them out with his boot. "Okay, you kind of are." Brad doesn't lower his eyebrows and Ray rolls his eyes. "Okay, you _totally_ are. But I still need a word with you."

"Speak."

"Nah, need to show you something. C'mon."

Brad follows him into the kind of small office that's attached to every warehouse - filing cabinets, a couple of aged computers, half-broken desk chairs, nudie pics on the walls, an overwhelming impression of _brown_ \- and is promptly slammed back against the door.

Ray kisses him briefly, a hot tangle of tongue and teeth and cigarette smoke, and then drops to his knees, radio parts dropped carelessly on the floor beside him and hands already unfastening Brad's pants.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Brad asks, but Ray's hands are on his cock and he's getting hard so fast it hurts.

"You said I could blow you in Baghdad." Ray grins, wide and open. "Welcome to glamorous Baghdad!"

Brad lets his head fall back against the door and breathes out a laugh that hitches as Ray licks a broad stripe up his cock. "You are a crappy sub," he says.

"I am a fucking awesome sub," Ray says, and licks Brad again. "I remember your orders and show initiative in carrying them out. And I'm blowing you even though your cock tastes _revolting_."

"I haven't showered since Mathilda," Brad says. "What did you expect?"

"Mine still tastes like sunshine and flowers. You should try it sometime."

"How the hell do you know what your co- No. Forget it. I don't want to know."

Ray just grins and sucks the tip of Brad's cock into his mouth. 

It's warm and wet and good, a reminder of civilisation, and if it was anybody other than Ray, Brad would shut his eyes. But Ray looks so fucking good on his knees, expression smug as he looks up at Brad, and Brad runs his left hand back over Ray's head, down the side of his neck, and slips his fingers under the collar.

Ray's eyes widen for a moment, then slide shut, and he tugs gently against the collar as he takes more of Brad's cock into his mouth.

"Hands behind your back," Brad says softly, and Ray snaps to obey, in a way he never does when it's work. Brad considers tying Ray's wrists, but he'd have to take his cock out of Ray's mouth while he did it and, fuck, he doesn't want that. Instead, he says, "Move your hands and I'm walking out this door. Understand?"

Ray can't move much, but he manages a slight nod.

Brad rests his right hand on Ray's head, gets as much of a grip as he can on Ray's hair, and says, "I'm going to fuck your mouth now."

He feels it, the full-body shiver that runs through Ray, and he waits, the moment stretching as Ray's skin heats against his fingers, feeling the tension in Ray's neck and the way it falls away, sharp and sudden, as Ray hands over any hint of control. It's all up to Brad now, and he comes alive with it, the way he comes alive doing 120 down the highway with his bike sensitive to every subtle shift of his body. 

With Ray right now, he doesn't have time to be subtle, and he fucks Ray's mouth hard and fast, feels Ray choking with it, but Ray doesn't try to pull away so Brad doesn't have to stop, doesn't have to ease up, and he can let his orgasm rattle through him, shocking and familiar and different twisted inextricably together in his head.

When he pulls back, Ray's still got his eyes shut, and he's smiling, just a little, as he licks semen from the corner of his mouth.

"Good boy," Brad says, breathless, and Ray opens his eyes, smile broadening.

"One day," he says, "I'm going to spend an hour blowing you, and you're going to find out just how fucking _fantastic_ my mouth is."

Brad's breath catches because, _fuck, yes_ \- but it's never going to happen in Iraq and this thing'll be over as soon as they're back home. So he just pushes the toe of his boot gently against Ray's erection, and says, "Jerk yourself off."

Ray tilts his head. "Does that mean I can move my hands without you walking out on me?"

"New orders override existing ones." Brad nudges Ray's erection again. "Come on."

Rays hands are trembling, barely perceptibly, as he unfastens his pants, wraps his hand around his cock. "Any further instructions?" he asks.

"I'm sure you know what to do," Brad says dryly, and Ray grins up at him.

"I'm a fucking _expert_." His hand moves as he talks. "Should be my fucking secondary MOS. That or blowjobs. Because, man, you _completely fucking wasted_ the opportunity there. Not that I'm complaining because - fuck - because that was..." His words die away as he comes and, after a moment, between heaving breaths, he says, "That was fucking awesome."

There's a very small part of Brad that wishes he could lock the door and just spend a couple of days in here with Ray. But most of him is already thinking about what his team's going to need for tonight; about the fact that there will be officers commandeering this office any moment now; about the fact that his radio is apparently disassembled and scattered over the increasingly stained floor.

"Don't worry," Ray says. "It's spares. The actual radio's working about as well as it ever does."

"How reassuring," Brad says, and it is.

* * *

Brad's paperwork stops him from paying much attention to the football game, but it's hard to miss the fact that _something_ out of the ordinary has happened. He jogs up just in time to see Patterson and Schwetje being hauled apart, and, _fuck_ , but he wishes he'd been there to see the start of it.

Okay, he thoroughly disapproves and it's extremely bad for discipline and fuck knows what effect it'll have on everybody's petty grievances - but he would fucking _love_ to see someone haul off and slug Schwetje.

If he's not allowed to do it himself.

He hangs around for long enough to watch Ray line up opposite Rudy, and has to hold back a grin. They look fucking ridiculous. Ray's tougher than he looks - wouldn't be Recon, otherwise - but he's small and wiry and Rudy weighs about two of him, so it's no surprise when Rudy sends him flying, so hard that Ray actually gets some air before he lands.

Brad watches Ray as he pulls himself back together, sits up, and he actually _sees_ the moment when Ray gives up on holding everything in. Brad's moving before Ray is, but Ray's closer, and Brad's still yards away when Ray hurls himself at Rudy's thighs and sends them both crashing down, hard.

Ray doesn't even get a decent shot in before the scramble resolves itself, Rudy with his legs tight around Ray's throat, driving punch after punch into Ray's head, and that's when Brad finds speed he didn't know he had.

Rudy doesn't know he's there until Brad's on top of him. It's enough to stop Rudy punching Ray, but not enough for Ray to get free, so Brad takes another shot, and this time Rudy's ready for him, and, shit, Brad _knows_ he can't beat Rudy. Being the best at this kind of shit is how Rudy gets away with, well, being Rudy.

The alternative is for Rudy to keep pounding on Ray, so there is no alternative, and Brad braces himself for Rudy's reply, but it never comes, because Jacks is there in time to catch Rudy's arm and hold it back. Brad's going to take his own shot, but fucking Poke's arm is around his throat and he's being dragged backwards, and somebody's hauling Ray out of the way, there are two people on Rudy now, and this thing's over.

Brad deliberately relaxes, says, "I'm good. I'm good," and, after a moment's hesitation, Poke lets him go.

"That was fucked up, dog," Poke says, and Brad shrugs, but doesn't reply. There's not much he can say. "Crazy white boys," Poke mutters.

A few yards away, Ray angrily shrugs off Mike's arm. "Fuck you," he yells at Rudy, then, "And fuck you, too!" at Brad, and turns to walk off.

"Ray," Brad calls, but Ray ignores him. "Fuck," Brad mutters, and follows after Ray.

Brad doesn't run, and they're almost back at the tank stand before he lengthens his stride to catch up.

"Fuck you," Ray snaps. "I don't need your fucking protection."

Brad feels his temper slowly uncurling in his belly, and clamps down on it, hard. "He would have turned you into paste. You know better than to get close in with Rudy."

"Maybe I fucking wanted to be paste." Ray finally turns around, and there's blood in his hairline, smeared over his temple, and Brad can't hold his temper down.

"Maybe I _didn't_." He takes a step closer, and Ray doesn't back away. "You are _mine_ , and nobody touches you without _my_ permission."

"I wanted-"

Brad cuts him off. "What you _want_ doesn't come into it." Brad slides his fingers under Ray's collar and makes a fist. It pulls the collar tight around Ray's throat, and Ray's eyes widen. "You agreed to that when you asked me to put this on you."

"Jesus christ, Brad," Ray says, and Brad ignores him, keeps talking over him.

"You wear my collar, that makes you _mine_." He pulls his Leatherman out as he speaks, manages to pull the blade out one-handed, and he holds it against the collar. The tip of the blade has scratched Ray's skin, left a thin white line that's slowly turning red. "If you don't want that, tell me, and I'll take my collar off you right now."

"Thought what I wanted didn't matter," Ray says.

"It matters when I say it matters," Brad says. "Tell me. Right now. Do you want me to take my collar off you?"

Time stretches between them. One breath. Two. Three. Brad's just drawing his fourth breath when Ray drops his eyes and says, quietly, as though it's been beaten out of him, "No."

Brad's breath deepens with the relief of it, and he lets go of Ray's collar, puts his Leatherman away. "Good," he says.

"You're a Neanderthal motherfucker," Ray says conversationally. "Bet your hippy liberal commie parents'd pitch a bitch fit if they saw that."

"You have no fucking idea," Brad says, and traces the line of the scratch he'd left on Ray's neck. "What did you want from Rudy?" he asks.

Ray shuts his eyes for a moment. "Fuck knows," he says, and Brad knows it's a lie, but he lets Ray hold on to it.

* * *

The chartered jet spends more than an hour sitting on the apron. The engines aren't running, which means no air-conditioning, and it's rapidly turning into a sweat-box. 

Brad stretches his legs out into the aisle and tries to relax but, even after three weeks in a Humvee, coach seating is cripplingly uncomfortable.

Beside him, Ray is delivering a running commentary on what's happening outside the plane.

"It's an airport, Ray," Brad says, with his eyes shut. "They're the same all around the world."

"There's nothing else to do," Ray says. "Except read the in-flight magazine, and I think I'd rather chew off my own toenails. Or your toenails. Fuck, even Trombley's toenails."

Trombley's a few rows in front, snoring. Brad envies him. "I think the Marine Corps should let me pay for an upgrade," Brad says. "To a seat with legroom."

"It's your own fault," Ray says. "You should have stopped growing at a sensible height, instead of turning into some freaky fucking NBA pro."

"And by 'sensible height,' you mean your own mutant dwarf efforts to pass for an adult?"

"Tall enough for Recon; short enough I don't whine my pussy sub ass off about sitting on a plane," Ray says, smugly.

Brad opens his eyes as the plane's engines hum into life, and cool air starts wafting from the vents. There are murmurs of relief throughout the cabin, growing louder as the plane actually starts to move.

The cabin crew, a trio of immaculately-groomed subs, moves down the aisles, making sure everybody's got their seatbelt fastened, their tables stowed and their seats in the upright position.

"This is fucking surreal, homes," Ray says, after he's grouchily straightened his seatback. "I mean, those trolley dollies are wearing perfume and aftershave and fretting about their hair and shit, and I've still got sand in my ass-crack and I keep freaking out that I've lost my M-4."

Brad's got the same disconnect in his own mind, stuck in the limbo between combat and home. He shuts his eyes again, but the disconnect is still there, even in the smell - hastily-washed Marines in lived-in uniforms and the lemony disinfectant scent of the plane. "You lost your Humvee, too."

"Nah, man, it's in the hold. Figured, we've spent so much on it, it's ours now. You can finally junk your bike and get the ride you've always wanted."

Brad opens one eye. "Don't even _joke_ about my bike, you deformed little homunculus."

Ray grins. "You say the sweetest things."

"Wake me when we hit Frankfurt."

* * *

Ray ignores his instructions and wakes him when the cabin crew come around with what's probably dinner but may be lunch. He gets fucked up with timezones when he's flying. "You missed the pyramids," Ray tells him.

"I've seen Babylon," Brad says. "That's enough ancient history for one week." He tears apart the bread roll. It's cold, too cold for the butter to spread, but it's fresher than anything he's seen since before Mathilda. He balances the butter on top of whatever the hot thing is and waits for it to soften. "I'm surprised your brain didn't explode from the sudden infusion of culture."

Ray ignores the pretence of courses and goes straight for the chocolate mousse. He moans around a spoonful, in a way that causes Chaffin, sat behind him, to punch the back of his seat. "If you two fuckers try to join the Mile High Club," he says, "I will fucking shoot your balls off."

"He's _eating_ ," Brad says, when it becomes clear that Ray's too involved with his chocolate mousse to reply. "You know how he gets."

Ray grins at him, mouth open and mousse smeared over his tongue and teeth.

"Revolting hick," Brad says, and drops his napkin over Ray's face. "They need to start covering table manners in Basic."

"Can I have your mousse?" Ray asks from behind the napkin.

"If I can have your roll."

* * *

At Frankfurt, it's raining, and Ray spends half an hour just staring out the window. "Fuck," he says. "Did you ever think how weird it is? That water just _falls_ out of the fucking sky?"

Brad looks at him. "I'm pretty sure that, even in Buttfuck, Missouri, they cover the water cycle. Although maybe you have to get as far as grade school."

"And the grass," Ray continues, "is _so fucking green_. I don't remember grass being that green."

"When did you last sleep?"

Ray rolls his eyes and finally looks away from the window. "I'm not sleep-deprived," he says. "I'm just... seeing things differently."

After a moment, Brad says, "I was right. Babylon _and_ the pyramids were too much for your brain to take. The LT should never have tried to expand your horizons."

They've got a couple of hours to kill before their flight on to Riverside, and Brad changes some dollars for euros and spends them on a shower. He doesn't have time to do anything about the state of his uniform, spattered with oil and and blood and shit and so ingrained with sand that he leaves a light trail behind him, but the water is hot and endless and pounds against him, pummelling the sand out of his hair and skin.

He should be surprised when the locked door of his shower cubicle opens, but he was half-expecting Ray to follow him. Ray's got the tag of his collar outside his t-shirt, and he points at it and says, gleefully, "I got in free!"

"Fucking European socialist bullshit," Brad says. "Are you going to wash or just stand and stare open-mouthed at the miracle of hot running water?"

Ray strips quickly, clothes left in a heap on top of Brad's neatly folded uniform, and steps into the shower. He gasps as the water hits him and turns his face into the spray, mouth open and eyes shut.

Brad squeezes out a handful of the shampoo/soap/body wash/chemical gunk that's provided and dumps it on top of Ray's head. "Wash," he says, but starts to rub it through Ray's hair himself.

Ray hums happily and leans back into his hands, and Brad realises, a sudden shock, that he's going to miss this intimacy. He should pull away now, before he gets any more used to it, but instead he chases the suds down Ray's neck, under the collar, where there's a thin red line of irritation. The plastic cuffs aren't designed to be worn for weeks, and Brad wishes he'd noticed earlier. Not that he could have done anything, but he should have noticed.

He gets another handful of soap and spreads it over Ray's shoulders and upper back. He can feel the slight bumps of Ray's tattoos and frowns. "You aren't properly hydrated," he says.

Ray's response is to gargle with the shower water. "I'm hydrating," he says through the water.

With Ray facing safely away from him, Brad lets himself smile, and drops a kiss on top of Ray's soapy head.

Ray promptly turns around and glares at him suspiciously. "What did you do?" he demands, and starts feeling the top of his head. "If you've put a spider in my hair, I will never put out for you again, and you will never experience the glory of my sand-free ass."

Brad pushes Ray out of the way and rinses the last of the suds from his own body. "Not a spider," he promises, but, once he's out of the shower and drying himself off, he says, "Just a cockroach."

"That's okay, then," Ray says, and starts scrubbing the shampoo out of his hair. "My first pet was a cockroach. I called it Jimmy-Jane." He turns around to look at Brad. "I didn't know if it was a boy or a girl," he says, as though that explains everything.

"The more time I spend with you," Brad says, "the more grateful I am for my own parents."

On their way out, the attendant stops Brad and explains that he has to pay for his sub's shower, even though they shared. Ray stands outside and cackles, while Brad hands over his last euros.

"You could have paid in dollars," Ray says, as they wander back to the gate, and Brad rests his hand on the back of Ray's neck, thumb slipped under the collar. He pushes gently, and Ray makes a show of stumbling.

" _You_ could have paid in dollars."

"Why would I do that when I've got a big, tough top to take care of me?"

* * *

It's past midnight PDT when the bus pulls into Pendleton. Brad's been trying to sleep since they left the airfield, but, just as he thinks he's about to manage it, there'll be something that jerks him back to awareness - a pipe, poking out of road work, that could be an RPG tube; a car's headlights that look like a flare; a heavy engine that could be a truck or an LAV.

It's exhausting and he wants either the comfort of slipping into military routine, or the haven of his own home. He doesn't want the homecoming and the families and watching his marines lose the hardness that's kept them going.

The first person he sees as the bus hisses to a stop is Pappy. He's using crutches, but he's there, boots on, and it seems like a promise. _Everything will be back how it was._

"My sister made it!" Ray says, peering past Brad to look out the window. "And she brought the snotrag. Awesome!"

Brad follows Ray's gaze, and sees a woman cradling a sleeping toddler. She has Ray's eyes, huge in a slender face, but her hair is lighter and Brad thinks she might be taller than Ray.

And then Brad takes a sudden breath because his mother is standing there, talking to Gina Espera. She waves as Brad climbs down from the bus, and Brad waves back before joining the line to collect his pack.

Ray doesn't bother getting his pack, just heads straight off to his sister, and Brad watches them. The kid wakes up enough to hug Ray but falls straight back to sleep in his arms. Ray's sister - and Brad's sure he should know her name, but it's lost in the fog of Not Combat Necessary - is looking at Ray's neck. At the collar. Ray shrugs, looks embarrassed, and Brad imagines him having to explain that it was necessary but it's not anything real. He expects Ray's sister to look disappointed, but she just hugs her brother, the kid squashed between them.

"Brad." Rudy's voice has the sort of elaborate patience that means he's been repeating Brad's name. "Your pack."

"Oh. Thanks." Brad swings it onto his shoulders, deliberately doesn't stagger as Rudy lets go. And he can't put it off any longer.

"You know I don't like you seeing me like this," he says to his mother, but she ignores him, wraps her arms around him, and he hugs her back, so tight it's got to be hurting but she doesn't protest. He rests his cheek on the top of her head and takes in the familiar smell of her shampoo and soap, and finally believes that he's made it home.

"I've been to your house," she says into his chest. "Gave it a quick clean and left some food in the fridge. And I made sure the water heater was on, so you can have a good, hot shower."

"Thanks," he says, and makes himself let go.

She isn't crying but her eyes are shining. "It's good to have you back," she says, and reaches up to touch his cheek.

"Brad, sorry, you're needed." It's Ray, and Brad turns a little to include him in the conversation. "The LT's looking for you - something to do with the ammo paperwork?"

"Right," Brad says. "Mom, this is Ray Person. He's-" He settles for, "He's on my team."

Ray snatches off his cover and does a convincing impression of a civilised person as he says, "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Colbert."

"You too, Ray."

And Brad sees the moment when she takes in Ray's collar, when she reads the tag, when her eyes widen and she looks at Brad with the beginning of a broad smile, and Brad quickly says, "There's no point you waiting around. I'll come around for lunch tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure," she says, and she's still smiling as she turns to Ray. "You should come along too, Ray."

"Thanks," Ray says, and, before he can say anything else, Brad has his hand on the back of Ray's neck and is steering him away. "I met your mom," Ray says, sounding smug.

"I didn't meet your sister."

Ray pulls a face. "She had to head off. Libby was grouchy. They're here for a couple of days, though."

"Time to catch up, then," Brad says, vaguely, and realises that he's still resting his hand on Ray's neck, possessive and intimate, and that's over. He pulls his hand away as they reach the LT.

Fick's already signed his sidearm back in, but he's still wearing his holster. "Brad, good," he says. "Did you give the blue slips to Griego or Mike?"

"Griego," Brad says, and then he's off unfucking the paperwork.

By the time he's done, most of the families have gathered up their marines and left. Among the few stragglers is Ray, leaning against the wall outside Brad's office.

"Doesn't feel real, yet," Ray says.

"That's the exhaustion talking," Brad says.

Ray shrugs. "I slept for twelve hours. I can't still be exhausted."

"You slept on a plane and a bus. That's not real sleep." Brad thinks of his bed at home, no doubt made up with freshly laundered bedding. Thinks of Ray tucked up in it, dark hair against white sheets. Thinks of saying a real goodbye to this fucked up thing between them. And it's not quite impulsive when he says, "Come home with me."

"Fuck, yes," Ray says.

* * *

When Brad turns back from locking his front door, Ray is on his knees, head down and hands behind his back.

"Do you have any idea how fucking weird it is to see you being quiet and obedient?" Brad asks.

Ray grins, but he doesn't look up, doesn't say anything. Brad puts his hand under Ray's chin, lifts until Ray meets his eyes, and Ray's practically laughing, but he still doesn't say anything.

Brad takes a step back, and Ray doesn't lower his gaze. "Get naked," Brad says, and Ray's pulling his t-shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor even as he stands up. "Neatly," Brad amends, and Ray sighs heavily before picking up his t-shirt and making a show of folding it and placing it on the bottom stair.

He unlaces his boots, pulls them off, places them on the floor by the stairs, and tucks the laces inside. He removes one sock, rolls it up, and places it inside the correct boot, then repeats the process with the other sock.

"I have to admire your ability to follow orders both precisely and _really_ annoyingly," Brad says.

Ray glances over his shoulder, and he's still grinning. He shrugs and raises his eyebrows in a gesture that says, clearer than words, _Fuck, homes, I'm awesome._

"Get a move on," Brad says, and Ray shimmies out of his pants and underwear, folds them quickly, and places them on top of his t-shirt. He ends standing neatly at parade rest, with a precision even Sixta couldn't argue with. 

Most of Ray's skin is pale, tattoos standing out vividly, but there's a line on his upper arms where his tan begins, and a sharper one at his neck, tracing the shape of MOPP and Kevlar. At his groin, his cock is dark and hard, and Brad's breath steadies, deepens. He deliberately looks away, at his collar, scratched and sun-bleached, the writing on the tag faded and smudged, and Brad's fingers itch to pick up a pen and go over it.

Instead, he drops into attention and says, quietly but with his best parade ground snap, "Attention."

Ray obeys, and it shouldn't still be a surprise. 

"About, face."

Ray wobbles slightly as he turns, and he has to move his right leg to get back to attention.

"About, face."

Again, Ray wobbles, but his feet end up in the right place.

"About, face."

This time, it's not perfect but it's good enough. Brad's never tried to drill barefoot, and he's got no intention of trying.

"Forward, march."

Going up the stairs, Ray's steps can't be the prescribed thirty inches apart, but the cadence is perfect.

As Ray reaches the top of the stairs, Brad says, "Mark time, march," and follows up the stairs. He stops one step below Ray and says, "Marine, halt." He blows softly on the back of Ray's neck as he obeys, and watches him shiver. "I didn't order you to move."

Ray twists around and, with a glare that's softened by the quirk in his lips, says, "Complain to fucking Sixta, then."

Yeah, that's Ray. Brad holds back his own grin, rests his hand on the back of Ray's neck and gives him a gentle shove. "Bedroom, shit-for-brains."

He wouldn't admit it, but he'd fucking _dreamed_ of his bed while he was in Iraq. Pure white sheets stretched out without a wrinkle. Thick, fluffy pillows. Big enough that his feet didn't fall off one end and he didn't bang his head at the other. He hadn't dreamed of Ray with it but, now he sees it, he can't understand why not.

"On the bed," he says, and pulls his t-shirt over his head. "Hands and knees."

If he'd thought of this at all, he'd thought of stretching it out. Eating fresh food, maybe while Ray sucked his cock. Long shower, to wash the last bits of Iraq off of them. Learning all the bits of Ray's body he hadn't been able to touch.

Now he's here, Ray naked in front of him, it seems ludicrous to wait.

By the time Brad's stripped, clothes straight into the laundry basket, Ray's on the bed, legs spread and head low. His breathing is fast, and Brad lightly traces the line of his spine. "You okay?"

Ray turns his head to look at him and says, "Oh, yeah. Fucking amazing. Now get your fucking cock in my ass before I rip it off and do it myself."

"Does that pass for sweet talk in Buttfuck, Missouri?" Brad asks, as he's getting condoms and lube from his nightstand drawer.

"No, it passes for sweet talk with your mom." Ray drops onto his elbows. "For fuck's sake, stop screwing around and get on with it."

Brad rolls the condom on before he gets onto the bed, kneels behind Ray. "You will tell me if I go too fast," he says as he squeezes lube onto his fingers, and it's not a request for reassurance.

"I'm not so fucking desperate for your cock that I'll let you rip me up," Ray says, breathless, and he pushes back against Brad's finger. "Fuck, maybe I am. More."

"You are such a mouthy little shit," Brad says, easing a second finger inside Ray.

"Gonna order me to - fuck! - to shut up?" Ray fucking _whines_ as Brad slides his fingers deeper.

"No. I knew what I was getting." He isn't going to admit that he likes it. Likes topping a sub who refuses to bend over for just anybody. "You ready?"

"Been ready since _Mathilda_ ," Ray says, and resettles himself. "Come _on_ , you pansy-ass dickfuck."

Brad does. 

He has to stop halfway in, hands clenched on Ray's hips, and take a couple of deep breaths. When Ray starts to push back against him, he snaps, "Stay still," and it's a relief when Ray obeys.

He concentrates on the edge of the tattoo on Ray's right shoulder, just visible on the curve of skin, and way the lines wobble and nearly merge. It's sloppy work.

Finally, he's able to slide the rest of the way in. Ray breaks his silence with a single, thready moan, and Brad has to fight to stop himself from echoing it. He lets his gaze move down Ray's body to where his skin is white under Brad's grip. There will be bruises in the morning, and Brad likes the thought of it - his fingers, burned into Ray's skin, still there even after the collar's gone.

Ray is _his_ , he thinks, and pulls out just enough that he can slam back into Ray.

Ray lets out a noise as though Brad's punched the breath out of him, and pushes his face into Brad's sheets.

"You can talk," Brad says, and his voice is so tight it doesn't sound like his.

"Can't-" Ray says. " _Fuck._ "

Brad slams in again. "You _will_ talk," he says.

"Fuck you," Ray says, voice muffled by the sheets. "Fuck you and your stupid fucking cock and- oh, _shit,_ \- fuck, that's good, wanna feel it, wanted you inside me for so fucking long - fuck, fuck, _fuck_ \- you _bastard_ , do it again, do it harder, make me feel it-"

Brad stops paying attention to the words, just lets the familiar noise of Ray running his mouth off wash over him as he buries himself in Ray's ass, and he tries to slow himself down, to make this last, but, really, what's the fucking point? Grab what he can, while he can.

He slides his hands up Ray's back, under his arms, grips Ray's shoulders, and hauls him up against Brad's chest. Ray's words come faster, ever more breathlessly, interrupted by a sharp gasp when Brad tweaks his nipple, hard. 

And then Brad sits back on his heels, pulls Ray down with him, Ray lands _hard_ , and his words are lost in a sobbing whine.

Brad drops a rough kiss somewhere between Ray's cheek and his neck, and wraps his hand around Ray's cock. "Talk," he says, and he hasn't got the co-ordination left to get Ray off _right_ but he tries. "Fucking _talk_."

Ray's head is back, resting on Brad's shoulder, his hands tight on Brad's forearms, and his eyes are screwed shut. "I can't, I can't, I can't, Jesus, Brad, you fucking-" The words fade into a moan, then Ray licks his lips and tries again. "I wanna come, make me come, please, fuck, _please_ , Brad, I need-" He lifts himself up a little, as much as he can with his back bowed taut, and lets himself fall back onto Brad's cock.

Brad's own breath is stuttering, and he knows his hand is too tight around Ray's cock, knows it's got to be hurting, but Ray's hands are even tighter on Brad's arms, nails digging into flesh, and Brad can't tell pain from pleasure, thinks Ray's the same. It's all just _sensation_ , and he needs more.

He bites down hard on Ray's neck, collar catching on his teeth and stopping him leaving as much of a mark as he wants, and gives Ray's cock a couple of rough jerks. "Come for me," he says, and, with a shudder and a fucking _wail_ , Ray does.

It's all Brad needs, and he bites down again as his own orgasm lights him up, an explosion that slowly fizzes away to leave him aware of the sharp pain from Ray's fingernails, the growing cramp in his calves and feet, the heavy, boneless weight of Ray against him and around him.

"Fuck," Brad says, and lets them both slowly topple to the side. He's careful to catch Ray's head, makes sure he lands softly, and Brad falls to his side, not on top of him.

"You're a fucking monster, Brad," Ray says, and Brad's pretty sure that's a compliment.

"I'm fucking exhausted," Brad says, and eases himself away from Ray. He rolls over onto his back, stretches out until his head and legs are both dangling off the sides of his bed. He'll get rid of the condom in a moment but, right now, he's just going to lie here and feel _alive_.

And maybe shut his eyes. Just for a few minutes.

* * *

Ray isn't a cuddler. After they've wiped themselves off and crawled under the covers, Ray settles himself at the farthest edge of the bed, crosses one foot over Brad's ankle, and goes straight to sleep. And he spends the rest of the night stealing covers that he can't need because he burns like a fucking furnace.

Despite Ray's flailing limbs, Brad finally manages to get to sleep, only to be woken what feels like five minutes later by Ray leaning over him, still naked and demanding to know if there's any food. "Because," he says, "my stomach's trying to convince me to carve a steak out of your ass."

"In the fridge," Brad says, and buries himself back under the covers. The sun's only just breaking the horizon and he's not in any fucking AO, so he doesn't have to get up.

"You want breakfast in bed?" Ray asks.

Brad's beautifully fresh, clean sheets are already dirty. The thought of adding crumbs to the mix makes him roll out from under them. He sits on the edge of the bed and stretches, says, "Pass me my robe."

He grabs his uniform from the laundry basket before he heads downstairs, automatically picks up Ray's as he passes, and throws them in the washer at the highest temperature. It's not going to get them clean, but he has to at least make the effort before trading them in for new ones.

"Tell me you've got bacon," Ray says, opening the fridge. "Fuck, you don't." He turns wide, betrayed eyes on Brad. "How could you not have bacon?"

"Jewish," Brad says, enunciating each syllable, and Ray snorts.

"Yeah, _ish_. I've seen you chowing down on a fucking bacon cheeseburger, so don't give me that kosher shit."

Brad tries to keep from smiling, shrugs instead. "My mom pays more attention to it." He shoulders Ray out of the way, strangely reluctant to put his hand on all that bare skin. There's no bacon, true, but his mom has stocked the fridge with the staples and a covered dish of something that's probably casserole. When he checks the cupboards, there's a loaf of bread that was no doubt fresh yesterday. "Scrambled eggs or cheese omelette with your toast?" he asks.

"Omelette," Ray says instantly, and Brad isn't surprised. The ersatz scrambled eggs they were fed at Mathilda are still unpleasantly real on his tongue.

He gives Ray the first omelette, but Ray doesn't start eating until Brad is leaning against the counter and eating his own breakfast. Fuck, but real food tastes good.

Ray has his eyes closed as he says, "If I'd known you could cook, I'd have had you put a collar on me sooner."

"Omelettes aren't cooking," Brad says, and realises he's staring at the collar. It's lop-sided, the tag sticking out over Ray's shoulder and partly covering the bite mark Brad had left.

Ray opens his eyes and grins. "If it's not out of a box, it's cooking."

"Okay," Brad says, and he doesn't let himself think about anything as he picks up the kitchen knife and slices through Ray's collar. He places the collar on the counter, and takes another forkful of his omelette.

Ray's looking confused, hand at his throat, and Brad clears his throat.

"Milk or juice?" he asks.

"What?"

"Milk or orange juice? To drink."

"My collar..." Ray says.

"I should have done it last night," Brad says. "Sorry. I didn't think."

"Last night," Ray says. "Right." He stabs his omelette a couple of times. "Because it was just cover. For while we were deployed."

"Yes," Brad says, and he knows he's missing something.

"Orange juice," Ray says blankly, then he looks up, eyes sharp. "No. No, you know what, _fuck_ the orange juice. And _fuck you_ , you fucking sub-ass _cunt_. Because I told you, I fucking _told_ you that I wasn't going to use you for cover." 

Brad takes a step back from Ray's vibrating energy, but Ray just follows him, the fork in his hand looking like something that could kill. 

"I fucking _told_ you that I'd do it for real but I wouldn't pretend, and you-" Ray spins around, strides away from Brad. " _Fuck_ ," he says, voice low and broken.

"It was real," Brad says blankly. "While we were in theatre." 

"And now we're fucking _magically_ just back to - what? Teammates? Like this never fucking happened?"

"Friends," Brad says, because it's what they've always been. Even while this was going on, they were friends first and foremost.

"Fuck, no." Ray makes for the hallway, and his discarded pack. He starts pulling out whatever clothes are on top - oil-stained pants and a black t-shirt that's stiff with dried sweat - and all Brad can do is stand and watch. "I can't be friends with you," he says.

"I can't do more," Brad says, and there's a curl of righteous anger growing in his belly. "I _don't_ do more. You know that. You _knew_ that."

"Yeah, well, I fucking _stupidly_ thought I _'knew'_ that you wouldn't fuck around with your best friend's head. I thought you were finally _growing up_." Ray pulls the t-shirt over his head and when he re-emerges, he says, "We all get fucking dumped, Brad! Most of us have the balls to get over it!"

The anger's swelling, and Brad gives up trying to keep it down. "And you thought you'd be the one to make me realise it? A scrawny runt who never shuts up and is possibly the shittiest sub I've ever had to endure?"

Ray pulls his pants on and sticks his feet in his boots, not bothering with socks or underwear. "No. I just thought I was the one to benefit from it. Guess I was wrong." He shoulders his pack, and picks up Brad's car keys from the side. "You can pick your car up on base."

Brad watches the door slam shut behind Ray, and stands for a long moment, forcing himself to take steady breaths.

And then he turns and puts his fist through the wall.

* * *

Brad cleans up, scraping the remains of both omelettes into the trash and putting the dishes in the dishwasher. He doesn't touch the collar, or the fragments of plasterboard in the hall, but he strips his bed and leaves the sheets next to the washer.

He showers, hotter than he can stand it, and scrubs himself until his skin's raw. It should be pleasant, being properly clean for the first time in months, but it isn't.

He can't face his parents, not right now, but he can't stay in his house, so he throws a clean uniform from his closet into a backpack, pulls on his bike leathers, and heads for the base. He takes stupid risks and goes too fast, and by the time he arrives, the adrenaline is all he can feel.

He changes into his uniform and is heading for the office where the battalion's team leaders scuffle over too few desks when he sees the LT.

Fick frowns, returns his salute perfunctorily, and says, "You really don't need to be here today, Brad."

"There's more bureaucracy in getting a unit back than there is in deploying them," Brad says. "I might as well get a head start on it."

"And Ray?"

"Sir?" Brad says, polite, attentive, and utterly blank.

Fick's gaze flickers to Brad's right hand, to the cuts on his knuckles that started bleeding again on the ride over, but he just says, "Right. Carry on, sergeant."

When Brad's laptop has finally booted up, and he's phoned IS for them to reset his network password (because who the fuck can remember a secure password after months of being shot at?), he prints off two copies of the TS-2483(d).

He fills in his own and slides it to the far corner of his desk, then sticks a post-it note to the other. "Complete and return to me." He signs it 'Brad', but replaces it with one signed 'Sgt. Colbert' before leaving the form in Ray's pigeonhole. He picks up his car keys from his own pigeonhole while he's there.

When he gets back, Mike Wynn is sitting on his desk, reading over the form. "At least you never filed a (c)," he says. "That'll make it easier. Command'll want to move Person out of your team - I take it you'll both want to stay as you are?"

"Maybe," Brad says. Because maybe Ray'll get over his snit, and they can go back to being friends. Or at least they'll be able to work together, because Brad doesn't want to lose the best RTO in the battalion. "We'll decide after PDL."

Mike puts the form back down. "You shouldn't file until you're sure or they'll ship him to North Carolina before you get back."

Brad fights his desk drawer open and shoves the form inside. "Anything else?" he asks.

"Yeah, LT wants the spec of the radio improvements Ray made."

"On it," Brad says.

* * *

Brad's half-expecting Ray to have done something unpleasant to his car, but he hasn't even tuned the radio to a country station or turned the volume up full. If Brad thinks about it, he'll worry, so he just keeps the radio turned off and enjoys the silence as he drives to his parents' house for dinner.

He no longer has their key on his keyring, so he has to knock and wait for someone to answer the door.

It's his mom, followed by their arthritic old Labrador, and she gives him a hug before stepping back and frowning at his uniform. "They couldn't give you today off?"

"They did; I had work I needed to get done." He reaches down to fondle Scooter's ears, and the old dog thumps his tail against the floor, tongue lolling happily.

His mom peers past him. "Will Ray be joining us later?"

"He's not really my sub," Brad says. "It was just..." He shrugs, and tries not to see how disappointed his mom looks.

"Well, I hope he knows he's invited anyway."

"He's not coming," Brad says. "Where's Dad?"

His mom can't miss the obvious change of subject, but she lets him get away with it. "Still at work," she says, stepping back and letting him in. She shuts the door behind him and says, "One day, he'll stop his office from over-booking him."

"No, he won't," Brad says, because his dad's patients complain about having to wait, but they don't complain about the fact he spends far longer with each of them than he should. "Something smells good."

"The marinade for the tuna steaks," his mom says, and he follows her into the kitchen.

"Can I do anything?" he asks, and accepts the knife he's given, starts cutting up salad.

"Tell me about Ray," she says, and he nearly cuts his thumb. She ignores it, says, "It can't be easy, being a sub in Recon."

"He's the only one in First Recon," Brad says, and for the first time it hits him just how hard Ray must have fought for what he wanted. "It was causing problems for him and the team. It was easier to just mark him off-limits."

His mom helps herself to a slice of tomato, and grins at his glare. "He must trust you a lot to let you collar him."

"I'm his team leader," Brad says. "He trusts me to keep him alive."

"It's not the same," his mom says, and he knows it isn't. But before he can say any more, the door opens, and his dad's home, and he doesn't have to think about it right now.

* * *

It's easy for Brad to find out which room Ray's been assigned in barracks, although it takes a few visits before there are any signs of occupancy. Brad knocks on the unlocked door, but doesn't bother waiting for an answer before pushing the door open and shutting it behind him.

Ray's lying across the bed, legs stretched up the wall and head dangling off the side. He's not wearing a shirt, and his jeans are pushed low enough on his hips for Brad to see the fading green and yellow of the bruises he left. 

Ray tenses when he sees Brad, starts to roll upright, but then relaxes, drops the magazine he's reading, and stays where he is.

"I'm off duty, sergeant," he says, and stretches.

Brad watches the play of muscles across Ray's chest and shoulders, down his arms, and stiffens at the unmistakeable red marks on his wrists, leftovers from handcuffs that have been fastened too tight.

Ray follows Brad's gaze, and grins. "You really aren't the only top in town."

"I never thought I was," Brad says, and he's impressed with how steady and unconcerned his voice is.

Ray sighs, and rolls forward off the bed, landing on his feet. His back is marked with the imprints of a crop, and Brad frowns. He takes a step forward, hand lifted to touch, before he pulls himself back. "I didn't know you were into pain," he says.

"I'm not," Ray says. "But some tops really like going to town on a sub who can kill them barehanded." He shrugs.

"Jesus," Brad says. "Did you sleep through the part of social ed. where they taught us about safewords?"

"But I'm trying _so hard_ to be a good, obedient, quiet little sub," Ray says, with malevolent sweetness.

The silence stretches, and Brad's the one to finally break it. He says, "Mike Wynn thinks command'll want to swap you out of my team. Probably to a team in Alpha or Charlie; maybe even out to Second Recon."

"No," Ray says instantly, and Brad's relief relaxes muscles he hadn't realised were tense. "I'm not re-upping," Ray says. "I want to say goodbye to guys I _know_ , not a bunch of strangers."

"You're leaving," Brad says, and tries to take it in.

"That's what I said."

Brad has to force the words out, but he says, "If it's me, I'll ask to be swapped."

Ray snorts. "You are _seriously_ over-estimating your importance, homes. It's not you; it's the fucking sub-ass, dick-for-brain retards they call officers in this joint."

"What'll you do?"

"It's none of your fucking business." The answer comes too quickly, and Ray follows it up with a shrug. "Go to college. Give my band another shot. Sell my ass on the street. Fuck knows."

"If you're ever hurting for clients," Brad says, "give me a call."

It's meant to be a joke, the kind of thing they'd have tossed around before this clusterfuck, but it comes out too real, and Ray stares at him. 

"Did you seriously just say that? Seriously? Because that is _officer_ levels of fucked up crazy retard stupid, Brad."

"I know," Brad says. But it's _Ray_ , with his hair too long, his jeans too loose, bruises Brad left on him, and still that thin red line around his throat from weeks of wearing Brad's collar. Brad can't take it back.

"You are such an arrogant fucking son-of-a-sub," Ray says, but it's as much admiration as insult. He glances away for a moment and, when he looks back, his face is set with determination. "You know what? Fuck it." 

And he's hauling Brad in for a bruising, biting kiss, and Brad's hands are on Ray's hips, pushing him back to the bed, and this is such a fucking mistake, but Ray's pulling Brad's t-shirt up, and his skin is so hot, and Ray is fucking _addictive_.

"Tie me up and fuck me," Ray says, as he's unfastening his jeans. "Use your belt. Condoms and lube are in the top drawer." His grin is hard. "And I know I'm a crappy sub but you still want to do this."

"You're not entirely useless," Brad says, and shoves Ray onto the bed. "Hands above your head." He loops his belt around Ray's wrists, wraps it through the middle a couple of times, and ends by tying the loose end to the bedposts. It's nowhere near enough to hold Ray if he doesn't want to be held, but it should be sturdy enough to make him feel tied.

Ray plants his feet on the bed, lifts his hips, and Brad takes advantage of the obvious invitation to pull Ray's jeans down. Ray kicks them off and they catch on Brad's thighs before falling to the floor. "Gag me," Ray says. "It's with the condoms."

Brad frowns and jerks the drawer open. It's a ball gag, well bitten and the straps showing wear, and he picks it up. "Do you like it?"

Ray's grin is almost feral. "Most of my tops do."

"I don't," Brad says, and starts to put it back.

"Okay, I fucking like it," Ray says, sounding angry at the confession. "So gag me."

Brad leans over him. "Are you sure you're a sub?"

"I'm the one being tied up, gagged and fucked. Draw your own conclusions," Ray says, and opens his mouth wide for the gag.

The leather's soft with use, already kinked at the right hole for the buckle, and as soon as it's fastened, Ray relaxes right into the crappy matress, and lets his legs fall open, cock lying heavy and hard at his groin.

Bondage is Ray's thing, Brad realises, too late. He should have figured it out back at the cigarette factory, realised each time he held Ray down in their grave and Ray just went _soft_ , heavy, easy. Brad wonders who he's given this to in the past few days, and his belly clenches.

The lube is well-used, the condom packet nearly empty, and it doesn't help him relax as he strips off his uniform. He wants to be rough with Ray, to leave him so he can't kneel for anybody for a few days without thinking of _Brad_ , but he clamps down on it. Ray's done nothing wrong.

It gets harder to keep himself in check when he realises that Ray's already loose and open. "Jesus christ," he says. "How much cock have you had?"

Ray frowns at him, looks almost disappointed, but makes no attempt to free himself, doesn't let out a sound. Brad rolls on a condom, slicks his cock up, and settles himself between Ray's legs.

"How do you want it?" he makes himself ask.

Ray gives him no indication, just shuts his eyes, lets out a steady sigh, and he looks as though he's smiling around the gag.

And Brad's not going to be vicious, but he's not going to take it easy on Ray. If Ray wants to kneel for every top in town, he can't expect Brad to nurse him through the aftermath. Not when Ray's _demanded_ this.

He slides in, one long, smooth thrust, and, fuck, it's good, Ray's so fucking hot and ready for him. He pulls out a little, pushes in again, and Ray lifts his hips to meet him, moans around the gag. His eyes stay shut but the lids twitch.

It's fascinating, and Brad keeps it like that for a while. Slow, steady, small, watching every expression that flashes across Ray's face, listening for every hitch of his breath, every barely audible sound.

Brad lowers his head, keeps his gaze on Ray's face as he licks across one nipple, over the swirling letters in the centre of Ray's chest, over his collarbone, and up to his neck to run his tongue over that thin, red line.

That's when Ray stiffens and shakes his head three times, steady, deliberate movements. Brad moves back to the safety of Ray's nipple, watches as Ray relaxes again. "Is this okay?" Brad asks and Ray opens his eyes, nods briefly, and closes his eyes again.

It's just his throat that's off-limits, Brad realises. Just the memory of the collar that Ray had thought was real, because he could be fucking stupid at times. And Brad's not helping by being slow and fucking _tender_ , so he steps it up a notch until he's jerking grunts out of Ray with each thrust. Slams deeper and harder until Ray's grunts are a near-constant moan.

Ray's got his eyes screwed shut, and if Brad can't have Ray's talking, he wants at least that, so he says, "Open your eyes."

It takes a long moment but, eventually, Ray obeys. His pupils are blown, he's staring at Brad, and he stays like that as he comes, eyes wide and locked on Brad's, chest heaving as he shudders through it, and Brad's suddenly scared, gut-deep _terrified_ , and he's the one to look away. He stares at the line on Ray's throat, at the fading remains of his own bitemark, and he finally realises just what an epic clusterfuck this is.

And that's when Ray tightens around, bucks up against him, and Brad comes.

It isn't until the words have fallen out of his mouth, and he's staring, panicked, into Ray's eyes, that he realises what he's said.

"I love you."

Fuck. Fuck. Beyond fuck.

Brad pulls out too quickly, sees the wince that Ray doesn't bother hiding, but he's not getting enough fucking air, hasn't felt like this since his first emergency dive ascent, and his hands _aren't_ shaking as he gets rid of the condom, unties Ray, unbuckles the gag.

Ray sits up, working his mouth, rubbing at his jaw, and he doesn't say anything as Brad dresses. It isn't until Brad's hand's on the door that Ray says, warning, "Don't you dare run away, Brad."

Brad swallows, says, "Get your (d) to me before you go on leave."

"The fuck?" Ray says. "You've just declared your totally understandable love for me and now you want to officially dissolve this thing? You are Special Olympics retarded, Brad."

"It doesn't change anything," Brad tells the door.

"It changes fucking everything," Ray says. "You love me."

"I was _fucking_ you," Brad says, still not looking at him. "Don't believe anything said during sex."

"Yeah, because you declare your love to all your whores. And in Iraq, every time you came, it was, 'Oh, I love you, Ray'. Happened so often it got fucking dull."

Brad can hear Ray walking towards him, and it's all he can do to stay where he is.

"I fucking _know_ you, Brad. I'm your best friend, and I'm your sub, and I am _not_ letting you fuck this up."

And, abruptly, Brad can't even manage to stay in the room, and he's out the door and walking fast down the corridor. Behind him, he can hear Ray yelling, "You fucking _coward_ , Colbert! You fucking, _fucking_ coward."

* * *

What Brad _wants_ is to get on his bike and ride in a straight line for five days. But he has to stay within eight hours of the base, so what he actually does is ride in circles. He hates ending up right where he started.

At the weekend, just for somewhere to _go_ , he ends up at his parents' house.

His older brother's there, taking advantage of their parents' pool, and Brad lies back on the lounger, eyes closed and beer in his hand, and listens vaguely to the conversation going on around him. It's all so fucking domestic and relaxed and alien and beautiful.

"Are you staying for dinner?" his dad asks, and Brad opens his eyes, looks up.

"Sure," he says.

"Then go and get the burgers from the freezer." His dad smiles. "Earn your keep."

Brad finishes his beer, then gets to his feet. "You're a slavedriver," he says.

"Damn right," his dad says, and sits down on Brad's lounger.

"I hate you," Brad tells him, and wanders off to the house, followed hopefully by Scooter. "You've been fed," he says to the dog, but pours some more kibble into his bowl anyway. Scooter sniffs it, looks disappointed, and heads back to the pool.

Brad leaves the burgers in the microwave to defrost, and snags a couple more beers before following Scooter back to his family. 

"Anybody?" he asks, holding up the spare beer.

"Me," his brother says, holding out his hand for it.

Brad waits, sees if his mom or dad wants it, then hands it to Taylor.

Both loungers are taken, so Brad joins his mom at the uncomfortable iron chairs under the sunshade. She's reading a magazine, but puts it down when he sits next to her. "How are you?" she asks, and he shrugs.

"Good."

She gives him a long look, sighs, and says, "How long until your leave's up?"

"I'm back on Monday." It'll be a relief, to stop having to find something to fill his days. And Ray's got another week of leave, so he won't even have to deal with that, not yet.

"Have you seen Ray at all?"

He's used to his mother's apparent ability to read minds by now, so he just shrugs. "A couple of times."

"You could give him a call. See if he wants to join us for dinner?"

Brad gives her an exasperated look. "Mom. It wasn't real."

She turns in her chair to look at him. "I know, sweetie. You've said. But, after Laura and Jaime, I'm so happy to see you able to even _pretend_ to be in a relationship, that I'd like to meet the boy."

Brad frowns at the table, but doesn't say anything.

She rests her hand on his. "I know they both hurt you, a lot. But you can't just keep yourself locked away for the rest of your life, no matter how scared you are of getting hurt again."

Brad's head snaps up. "It's not-" He closes his eyes, takes a breath. "Believe me, Mom. Ray isn't the sub you want me to bring home to meet you."

She pats his hand. "Just think about it," she says, and picks her magazine up again.

After a moment, Brad walks over to the pool and stands on the edge, looking down at the pattern of sunshine on ripples. He's joined by Taylor. "I'm going to shove you in," Taylor says.

Back when Brad had just finished BRC, Taylor had tried to sneak up on him and push him into the pool. Brad's reactions had kicked in long before his brain, and he'd slammed Taylor into the ground so hard that he'd cracked his coccyx. Taylor's been overly-cautious around him ever since, and sometimes it hurts.

Today, he just puts his beer down and stands with his back to the pool, arms spread. "Go for it," he says, and when Taylor charges him, he makes sure they both hit the water.

Brad stays down long after Taylor's kicked himself back up, turns on his back and watches the light shatter on the surface of the water. By the time he surfaces, his dad's standing on the side, looking anxious.

"Sorry," Brad says, takes a breath, and dives back down.

* * *

"No, thanks," Brad says, when his dad offers him another beer. "I've got to ride back."

"You could stay the night," his dad says, and Brad only thinks about it for a moment before accepting.

* * *

When he hits the sack at gone midnight, he's not drunk. He's at that point where he's a little light-headed and maybe inclined to giggle and maybe he doesn't _want_ to walk in a completely straight line.

He lies back on his old bed and feels the room tilting slightly around him and, okay, he might be a _little_ bit drunk, and that's why he can't stop thinking about what his mother said.

Because he's not afraid of getting hurt.

He genuinely _isn't_ \- that's not at all what this is about - and he's left wondering if that's what Ray thinks.

The obvious solution is to call Ray to see. So he does.

"Ray Person." Ray sounds wide awake, which, if Brad had thought about the time, would have been a relief.

"Ray," he says.

"Who is this?"

Brad realises he's calling from his parent's line, that Ray's cell won't recognise the number. "It's Brad."

There's a long pause and Ray says, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't hang up on you."

"Because I need to tell you something." Brad grins at the ceiling. "And I'd just keep calling you back."

Another long pause, and Ray says, "Well, tell me whatever's so important you have to call in the middle of the night."

Brad closes his eyes. "I am a deeply flawed human being," he says, and hears Ray snort.

"Yeah, homes, I kind of already know that."

"No, see." Brad frowns as he tries to organise his thoughts. "See, there's not enough of me."

"There is _plenty_ of you, you fucking giant."

"Not enough of my _soul_ ," Brad says.

The silence stretches until Ray says, "Okay, I'm hanging up now. Because if you're drunk enough to be talking about your soul, you're drunk enough that you're going to _seriously_ fucking regret this in the morning."

"Don't, don't, don't," Brad says, and he sighs with relief when he doesn't hear the click of Ray hanging up. "You've got to understand," Brad says. "I'm not scared of getting hurt. That's just... a thing that happens. I'm scared of hurting _you_. Because there's not enough of me to love you enough."

"Fuck," Ray says softly, and Brad can hear him moving around, hear the rustle of sheets before Ray speaks again. "Brad, I want you to promise me that you'll drink a couple of glasses of water before you fall asleep. And I'm going to come over tomorrow, and we're going to fucking sort this out."

"There's nothing to sort out," Brad says. "I'm sorry. I just had to let you know why." And he hangs up.

* * *

When Brad gets back to his house, there's a junker of a truck parked in his driveway, and Ray is stretched out on the porch.

Brad edges his bike past the truck, and pulls his helmet off before saying, "Your truck is _beige_ , Ray. Why the fuck did you buy a _beige_ truck?"

Other than opening his eyes, Ray doesn't move. "Because I miss my Humvee. Do you think whatever bastard's got it now is looking after it? Does it pine for me at night?"

"Hopefully, it's been ripped up for spare parts," Brad says, and opens his garage door. "If I tell you to fuck off, will it have any effect?"

"Fuck all," Ray says cheerfully, and sits up.

"Didn't think so," Brad says, and wheels his bike into the garage. "Come on, then. Might as well get this over with."

Ray follows him into the cool of the garage. "So, you do remember calling me."

"Yes, Ray," Brad says, as he heaves his bike onto its stand. "Because I was drinking beer, not the bathtub moonshine that the members of your inbred, cretinous family use to console themselves for your safe return, and therefore didn't end up with my brain rotting out of my skull."

Ray leans against the wall, arms folded and says, "Whatever you were drinking, you drank enough of it to admit that you're not good enough for me. Which is totally true, by the way. My sister thinks I shouldn't be throwing myself away on you, and should hold out for an officer. I've tried to explain that officers are even more retarded than you, but she thinks they have prettier uniforms."

Brad hooks his helmet over the handlebars while Ray's talking and unzips his jacket. "Have you considered the possibility that I was just saying it to make you feel better about yourself?"

"Yeah, for about a nanosecond, and then I remembered it was _you_ , so there was fuck all chance of that happening." Ray grins at him. "Face it, Brad. I know you love me, and I know that you're fucking _terrified_ of hurting me."

" _Slightly worried_ about hurting you," Brad corrects him. "Nothing about you is terrifying."

Ray waves a hand. "I was allowing for your emotionally retarded understatement. You're terrified."

Brad leaves his jacket draped over his bike and heads inside. Ray follows him, still talking.

"See, the thing is, you already hurt me. So much so that my sister's out for your blood and you should be fucking grateful she had to head back to Missouri, because I'm pretty sure she could take out Rudy without breaking a sweat. Or a fingernail."

"Are you going to get to a point?" Brad asks, and grabs two bottles of water from the fridge. He tosses one to Ray, then opens the other and takes a long drink.

"Okay, point," Ray says. "Not doing this means I definitely get hurt. Doing this means I might get hurt, but I at least get some awesome sex out of it. And so do you, because I'm fantastic in bed."

"No," Brad says.

"I am too fantastic in bed, and I can bring you signed affidavits to prove it. From your mom."

"Ray," Brad says, and Ray actually stops talking. "I'm telling you no."

Ray shrugs. "Okay. But I'm not filing my (d)."

Brad slowly screws the top back on his water. "If you cause trouble," he says, "there's no way I can stop Command sending you somewhere else. Maybe even out of Recon entirely." And fuck knows what it'll do for any other subs trying to get into Recon. Brad's not into sub lib and all the rest of that shit, but he's in favour of the best people possible being around him, whether they're sub or top.

"If you don't file your (d), there won't be any trouble," Ray says.

Brad sighs.

"It's, what, six months, before I'm out. You can cope with command thinking we're together for that long." Ray finally opens his water, but doesn't drink any, just stares at the bottle. "I don't want it to be _completely_ fucking obvious that I needed protection in theatre." He looks up sharply. "Well, that you _thought_ I needed protection, because I can take care of myself."

"This is blackmail," Brad says, but it doesn't come out anywhere near as harsh as it was supposed to. It sounds almost _affectionate_.

There's a smile creeping into Ray's voice as he says, "I prefer to think of it as bribery. That's six more months where you get to top _me_ , and better men than you have tried and failed."

Brad can't help smiling back. "Really," he says. "Give me names, then."

"Patterson," Ray says.

Brad puts his water down. "No fucking way."

Ray grins. "Yes fucking way. I mean, he was amazingly polite about it, and took his no like an officer and a gentleman, but he totally wanted to tap my ass."

"I had no idea the heat was affecting him so badly," Brad says.

"Fuck you," Ray says easily, and takes a long drink. When he finishes, there's water trickling from the corners of his mouth, and he doesn't lick it away before saying, "So, do we have a deal?"

"A deal?" Brad says.

"We keep this going until I'm out of the Corps. Once I'm out, you can file whatever paperwork you want."

"I thought we were going to _pretend_ to still be together."

Ray cocks his head and grins. "I don't like pretence. And I'm completely shitty at it. Safer just to actually keep it going."

"You are a cunning, conniving, twisted, sister-fucking little shit," Brad says.

"Is that a yes?"

Brad sighs. "It's a yes."

* * *

On Monday morning, Brad goes into the LT's office to see what epic new fuckery has occurred in the week he's been away. In any sensible world, the fuckery would be slowed down by the fact that pretty much everybody's on leave, but this is the Corps, which means that the fuckery will inevitably have been accelerated.

Fick's the only one in there, and he's on the phone, forehead propped against the heel of his hand. "I just don't think parachute requalification is the most urgent requirement at the moment," he's saying. "None of my platoon is less than nine months away from needing a jump." He pauses, listens. "Yes, I appreciate that. Yes." Another pause. "Yes, sir." He hangs up, sighs, and looks up at Brad. "I am assured that parachute requalification will be relevant for our next deployment."

"Yes, sir," Brad says, and Fick smiles.

"I've been looking into it, and there's nothing official to say Person will have to be transferred once you two file your (d)s, so we should be able to keep him."

"Thank you, sir," Brad says, "but we won't be filing."

Fick leans back in his chair. "I was under the impression," he says slowly, "that this was just an in-theatre arrangement. That it was, to be blunt, to keep Person's ass safe and unmolested."

"Ray is more than capable of protecting his own ass, sir," Brad says.

"Yes," Fick says. "I've heard." He studies Brad some more. "So am I to believe," he says, "that this was simply a case of love blossoming under fire?"

"Something like that, yes, sir," Brad says.

Fick blinks a couple of times. "Well, shit," he finally says.

"Yes, sir." Brad gives up fighting to keep his smile off his face. "That was my reaction, too."

"Should I be expecting that hunk of plastic around Person's neck to be replaced with something a bit more traditional?"

" _No_ , sir. That was an attempt to save lives by making it clear that Ray was off-limits. His methods of saying 'no' were getting increasingly vehement."

"I did get one or two complaints from Delta," Fick says.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir." Sorry to hear they were stupid enough to complain; not remotely sorry Ray had hurt them enough they wanted to complain.

"Well. Congratulations. And I've heard Walmart's running a special on gags, if you want to stock up."

For a moment, Brad thinks the LT knows about Ray's thing for being gagged, thinks the LT has topped Ray, thinks it might have been the LT who left those marks on Ray's back, and he finds it hard to breathe through the surge of adrenaline. Then he realises it's just a comment on Ray's big mouth, and he clamps down, hard. "I'll bear that in mind, sir," he says.

Fick's looking at him a little strangely, but all he says is, "I'm looking at running a few small-team exercises, try to figure out how much skill we've lost during deployment. Wynn's still on leave, along with half the platoon, so I'll want you to run the assessments."

"Yes, sir," Brad says, and he pulls up a chair and they start going over possible groups and scenarios.

* * *

When Brad gets home, Ray's washing dishes wearing just an apron. He has bubbles on his nose.

Bubbles. On his fucking _nose_.

It's too calculatedly adorable to be anything but deliberate.

Brad leans against the doorframe, watching Ray's reflection in the window. Ray is watching right back but he doesn't turn around, just grins.

"I do have a dishwasher," Brad says.

"I'm experimenting with being a 1950s housesub," Ray says.

"And how's it going?"

"It's fucking _boring_. No wonder they all needed a fuckton of Valium to get through the day." Ray turns around and flicks bubbles at Brad, but he's too far away for them to get anywhere near him, and they just float to the floor.

Brad studies where the bubbles have landed, then looks up to meet Ray's eyes. "You made a mess on the floor," he says. "You should clean that up."

Ray steps forward and squashes the bubbles so they ooze through his toes. "Cleaned up," he says.

"There's still a damp patch."

Ray shrugs. "Can't see it."

"Then perhaps you should kneel down and take a closer look."

Ray takes off his apron and ostentatiously drops it on the floor. He grins as he says, "Perhaps you should make me."

Brad does.

* * *

Ray doesn't actually move in. It can't be moving in when the only things he brings with him are his gag, a couple of changes of underwear, and a large selection of college prospectuses.

It just feels as though he's moved in.

Brad's used to solitude. He _likes_ solitude.

It's a surprise to discover he also likes Ray being around.

Friday evening, Brad's paying less attention to the game on TV than he is to the prospectus he's flicking through. "Decided against selling your ass on the street, then?" he says.

Ray's curled up at the other end of the couch, half-asleep, but at Brad's words, he stretches out a little and rests his feet on Brad's lap. "The Corps only pays for tuition," he says around a yawn. "I might end up selling my ass after all."

"Pick a college around here," Brad says, "and you can save on accommodation costs by staying at my place while I'm deployed."

Ray's silent for a long moment, then nudges Brad's thighs with his feet. "Thanks."

"Pretty sure you wouldn't make enough from selling your ass to cover accommodation _and_ food," Brad says.

"Aww, I love you, too," Ray says, and, despite the lightness of Ray's tone, the words land heavily between them.

"Really?" Brad says eventually, and it's got too many fucking _emotions_ in it, because Ray sits up from his slouch, and frowns.

"You think I'd go through the epic shitstorm of blackmailing you into this if I _didn't_ love you?"

Brad shrugs and starts rubbing Ray's feet. "I have no idea what goes on the syphilis-riddled depths of the shrivelled walnut you call your brain."

Ray smiles, leans back against the arm of the couch, and shuts his eyes. "And that's what keeps the mystery in this relationship," he says smugly.

* * *

"My truck won't start," Ray says on Sunday evening. "Can I borrow your car?"

Brad looks up from the computer he's upgrading on the kitchen table. "Where are you going?"

"Barracks. I need to pick up a uniform for tomorrow."

"The one you were wearing the first night's still here."

"And unless you've turned into a fucking stain-removal fairy, it's still so filthy I'd get NJPed for wearing it."

Brad smiles "Car keys are by the front door." He's still not sure if he's going to say anything until he hears Ray opening the front door and then he calls out, "Hang on."

Ray comes back into the kitchen. "Want me to get you something on the way?"

"You might as well bring all your shit. Seems pointless you paying for a barracks room when you're spending all your time here."

"Fuck, Brad," Ray says, and sits down opposite him. "Last week, you were being all fucking noble and denying your love for me, and now you're asking me to move in."

" _Telling_ you to move in," Brad interrupts.

"Fuck that, homes, you know I only obey when I want to," Ray says easily. "You don't think you're maybe rushing it a bit?"

"I've survived a week with you," Brad says. "I don't see how it can get much worse than you stinking up the bathroom every day."

"Nah, you've survived a week of _coming home_ to me. Wait until we're back to working together. You'll want to be able to kick me out a couple of nights a week. You won't be able to stand my awesomeness 24/7." Ray pats Brad's hand. "It's okay. Nobody's strong enough for that. I don't think any less of you, Iceman."

"I stood your awesomeness the whole time we were in Iraq," Brad points out.

"Yeah, but you were distracted by people shooting at you and shit. You don't get that in your fucking upper middle-class professional gated suburb."

Brad puts down his screwdriver. "Ray," he says. "Pack up your shit and move in."

Ray taps his fingers on the table for long enough that Brad's considering cutting them off, and then says, "I'll pack up _some_ of my shit. But I'm keeping my room and I'm keeping enough stuff there that we aren't trapped together."

Brad thinks about it, then nods sharply. "Acceptable."

"Cool." Ray pushes his chair back with a squeak that makes Brad want to wince. "Want me to pick up some Mexican on the way back?"

"Make it Thai," Brad says. "Your shit stinks enough without adding fucking refried beans to it."

* * *

Brad's already in his civvies and on his way to the parking lot when the LT stops him. "I won't keep you long," Fick says. "I just need a quick word."

"Yes, sir," Brad says, even though his board's already in the back of Ray's truck, just waiting for the weekend to start. He follows the LT through to his cramped office. Schwetje's in there but he doesn't even look up from his keyboard as Fick leans against his desk.

"There's an opportunity coming up, a two year detachment to the Royal Marines. Would you like me to put your name forward?"

Brad frowns slightly as he thinks about it. "What would it involve?"

Fick doesn't quite shrug. "From what I understand, an equal mix of teaching, training with a unit, and deployment. The specifics depend on who we send but, for you, I imagine the teaching would be desert warfare for marines due to be deployed to Afghanistan, probably with some mountain leadership and swimmer canoeist courses."

"Swimmer canoeist." Brad doesn't bother to hide his disdain, and Fick smiles.

"Special Boat Service. Tougher than it sounds."

Ah. Definitely tougher than it sounded. "When would it start?"

"If you're selected - and that _is_ an 'if' - it'll be in about six months."

Brad nods again, slowly. "When do you need an answer, sir?"

"The sooner the better, but definitely by the end of next week. And Brad." The LT pauses, looks awkward, but makes the effort to meet Brad's eyes. "You can only take a sub if they're collared. I don't know if that'll have any bearing on your decision, but I thought you should know going in. Especially as Ray'll be out of the Corps by then."

"Yes, sir," Brad says automatically. "Thank you, sir."

When he gets to the parking lot, Ray's leaning against the side of his truck. His t-shirt and jeans are almost more hole than fabric, he's still wearing his combat boots, and Brad still isn't used to the way seeing Ray makes him want to smile.

When Ray sees him, he makes a show of pretending to fall asleep, startling 'awake' as he slides sideways to the ground. "What the fuck kept you? Did you have to iron your shirt? I don't think the other surfers'll pick on you if it's creased, you know."

"They'll be too distracted wondering when your shirt's going to disintegrate entirely," Brad says. "I'm not telling anybody you're my sub. It's too embarrassing when you look like that."

Ray yanks his shirt off. "This better?" he asks sarcastically, and Brad studies him carefully.

"Much better," he finally says, and ignores Ray's rolled eyes to hold his hand out. "Keys."

"Fuck off," Ray says. "My truck, I'm driving."

Brad shrugs. "Okay," he says, and starts to walk around to the passenger side, but turns back. Pushes Ray up against the truck, one hand at his waist, the other at his neck, and kisses him. Fuck, he loves Ray's skin, and he slides the hand at Ray's waist around to his back, tugs Ray closer against him, and just lets the moment stretch.

"The fuck?" Ray says, breathless, when Brad eventually steps away.

"Like I said," Brad says. "You look much better without the shirt."

"Fuck off," Ray says, and turns away, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but he's doing a lousy job of hiding his grin.

Ray's truck is sweltering, thick with the smell of aged upholstery, and Brad nearly burns his hand winding the window down. "Let me guess," he says. "You still haven't fixed the a/c."

Ray has to slam his door a couple of times before it shuts properly. "I was too busy sucking your cock," he says. "I mean, if you'd _rather_ I worked on my truck, that's fine by me." He turns the key in the ignition and the engine turns over a few times, accompanied by Ray's hushed, blasphemous entreaties, before finally catching. "Actually, no, that isn't fine by me. I'd rather suck your cock."

"Pleased to hear it," Brad says. He leans forward to turn the radio on, then settles back in his seat and shuts his eyes.

They're stuck on the interstate, have been for an hour, when Ray stops singing along with Justin Timberlake to say, "At risk of sounding like a stereotypical needy sub, what's up, homes?"

Brad opens his eyes, looks over at Ray and says, "Hmm?"

"Oh, very fucking communicative. Well done." Ray punches Brad's arm. "You were in a good mood all day, then in the fifteen fucking minutes when I left you alone, you turn into some kind of monosyllabic grump monster."

Brad sits up. "Grump monster?" he says carefully. "Really? That's the best you can come up with?"

"It's the best I can be assed to come up with," Ray says. "Come on, spit it out. What's got your panties wedged up your ass?"

Brad shuts his eyes again and leans back. "Nothing," he says.

"Oh, fuck you," Ray says, and turns the radio up punishingly loud.

* * *

It's dark when they pull into the Marriott in Oxnard. Brad's pretty sure it was more comfortable charging over berms in a Humvee than driving along the interstate in Ray's POS truck.

"Let me guess," he says. "You were too busy sucking my cock to do anything with the suspension, too."

Ray grins. "Hey, not my fault you love my mouth."

Brad stretches. "Next time we plan a weekend away," he says, "we cancel if my mom writes off her car and needs to borrow mine."

"We could have taken your bike," Ray says, and jumps out of the truck.

Brad steps out, too, and says over the truck bed, "I don't take passengers. And if you can figure out how to carry a board on a bike, your mind's even more screwy than I thought it was." He grabs both bags from the truck, and lobs Ray's at him. "Get moving." He pauses. "And put a shirt on before we go inside, you uncivilised fucking hick."

Their room's big, bland, and deliciously cool. Brad strips down to his briefs as soon as the door's safely shut behind them, and turns the a/c up to max.

"Nice," Ray says, leaning up against the wall with his arms folded. "C'mon, give me a show."

Brad's response is to pin Ray's arms to the wall above his head, and kiss him until they're both breathless.

"Not quite the show I had in mind," Ray says, mouth close enough to Brad's that he can taste the words as well as hear them, "but definitely acceptable."

"Go shower," Brad says, just as close. "You stink." He steps back and, as Ray moves away, slaps his ass.

"Fuck off," Ray says, but he bites his lower lip as soon as the words are out, and his head's lowered just that tiny, significant bit, and his breath is carefully steady.

"Make sure you brush your teeth," Brad says, and Ray heads into the bathroom without another word.

Brad folds his clothes, unpacks his bag, strips off his briefs, and follows Ray.

Ray's just stepped out of the shower when Brad walks in. At Brad's raised eyebrows, he steps back in, hands behind his back and head lowered.

"Good," Brad says, steps into the tub, and pulls the shower curtain closed. He turns the spray on, takes a minute to adjust the temperature until it's exactly right, and then he turns back to Ray. "Wash me."

Ray's head comes up slightly. "Oh, fuck you," he says, almost marvelling, and so soft that Brad can hardly hear it.

"Speak up," he says, and Ray quickly lowers his head.

"Sorry, master."

"No," Brad says. "I want you to talk." He reaches out, pushes Ray's head up so he can meet his eyes. "I always want you to talk. You're the one who wants to stay silent." He pats Ray's cheek. "And you're my sub so you do what I tell you. Talk."

Ray laughs as he reaches past Brad for his shower gel. "You are the only fucking top I've ever subbed for who actually _likes_ me talking. Most of them were fucking thrilled to shove the gag in my mouth."

Most of them were fucking idiots, then, Brad thinks, but he just turns his back to Ray, leans forward to rest his hands on the wall, and lets the water cascade over the back of his neck.

Ray's got blunt hands, surprisingly big, with callouses that catch on Brad's back as he works up a lather. "How the fuck did you come back from Iraq without weirdass tan lines?" Ray asks. "Everybody else, fucking farmer's tans and trucker's tans and however the fuck Q-Tip ended up with his back bright red and everything else white, but you just, pow, golden all over. It's seriously fucking unfair."

It could be ticklish as Ray moves his hands down Brad's sides, but the pressure's just right, just this side of rough.

"I've never trusted a tattooist enough for colour," Ray's saying now. "Not real colour, not like this. Give 'em a stencil and they can't fuck it up _too_ bad - I'm never going back to the guy who did my radio mast - but this needed a fucking artist. How many visits did it take? And who put the ointment on for you, because you aren't bendy enough to reach- Fuck, no, forget I asked that. But, seriously, she's a total fucking bitch."

"Change the subject," Brad says, because it doesn't hurt to hear Ray talk about her, and he doesn't want to think about what that means.

"Yeah, good idea." Ray kneels down, and the movements clatter through the tub. "I love your ass, y'know. Perfect to grab hold of when you're fucking me, try to get you to fuck me a little harder. You hold back sometimes, I can tell, and you don't have to." Ray's thumbs dip between Brad's cheeks. "I can take anything you give me."

"I'm not into pain," Brad says, and widens his legs as much as he can. "I didn't think you were, either."

"I'm not, as _such_ ," Ray says. "But when it's a good fuck that gets out of hand, that's different." He's holding Brad's cheeks apart now, and Brad's half-expecting it when Ray's tongue slips over his asshole.

'Half-expecting' isn't enough to stop him hissing out Ray's name.

Ray doesn't say anything, just licks again, and again, getting firmer with each press of his tongue, deeper, until Brad has to rest his head against his arms and concentrate on trying to breathe.

"Use your fingers," he manages to say.

"Fuck," Ray says, and he sounds as breathless as Brad. "Lube, where's the fucking lube?"

"Screw the lube," Brad says.

"Not into pain, remember," Ray says, and there's the clatter of him standing up, grabbing the tiny tube of complimentary lube that's in with the soap and shampoo and shower cap, and then he's got one hand resting on Brad's back as he slowly pushes a finger inside Brad. "Jesus fucking christ, you're tight. Have you ever had anything up here before?"

Brad doesn't answer, and Ray doesn't seem to have expected him to.

"Can you take another? Bet you can. Fuck, you're beautiful." A kiss to Brad's spine, followed by another finger pushing inside him, and Ray's muttering, "Where is it, where is it, gonna make you feel so fucking good, Brad, gonna fucking light you up inside," and then he _does_ , and Brad groans, deep and heavy. He can fucking _hear_ Ray grinning. "That's it, that, feels good, don't it, Brad? Want another finger? Do you?"

"Get the condoms," Brad says, and Ray stills.

"You- Really?"

"Get. The fucking. Condoms."

Ray's so fucking slow and careful as he pulls out, and Brad hates it and is glad he takes it slow at the same time. Brad's hand's shaking as he turns off the shower, and it's a relief to fold his arms against the wall, lean his head against his forearms, to stop having to put so much effort into holding himself up.

He turns his head to the side as Ray comes back into the bathroom, and Ray's already rolling a condom on. "You sure?" he says, as he steps back into the tub. "Because if you haven't - this isn't the best position for a first time, is all. Might be better on the bed or-"

"Jesus christ, Ray," Brad says. "I'm not a fucking virgin. It's just been a while. Get a fucking move on."

"Right," Ray says, and Brad can feel his breath on his back, and then Ray's hand's on his thigh. "Lift your leg - foot on the side of the tub. It'll be easier."

And then Ray's cock's nudging inside him, and that, oh, fuck, that is _more_ than fingers, that is a lot more, and Brad isn't going to make a fucking noise, not while Ray's murmuring nonsense and encouragement and edging deeper.

"Can I- here." And Ray's hand is around Brad's cock, jacking him, while Ray keeps going fucking _deeper_ , and then Brad's lit up inside _again_ , and it's all too fucking much, and he bites down on his arm as he comes. "Yeah, c'mon, c'mon," Ray's saying. "That's it. Give it up, let it go, c'mon, now."

"Fuck," Brad says, and Ray lets out a snort of laughter.

"Yeah," he says, and starts to pull out.

"Stop," Brad says, and Ray obeys. "You didn't come."

"Well, no," Ray says, as though it's obvious. "Not yet."

"Keep going," Brad says.

"It's- It's weird once you've come," Ray says. "Doesn't feel the same. You sure?"

"Stop making me repeat orders," Brad says, and Ray does as he's told.

Ray's right, it's not the same. Brad's not hovering on the edge of orgasm and he can feel the ache and stretch and burn, and he's not going to let it show on his face, no matter what, because he can also hear Ray's hitching breath, and feel Ray's fingers tightening spasmodically on Brad's hip, can hear the growing whine under Ray's breath as he moves faster, less carefully, and it makes up for the pain when Ray stiffens, breathes out a low, stretched profanity, and Brad can fucking _feel_ Ray's cock pulsing as he comes.

"Fuck," Ray says, and leans forward to rest on Brad's back. "I think I need to shower again."

"Need to move first," Brad says, and Ray slowly eases himself out of Brad. Brad stays where he is, listens to Ray removing the condom, dropping it in the trash.

"You okay?" Ray asks, hand on Brad's back, and Brad slowly straightens up, rolls his shoulders.

"Yeah," he says, but he rests his hand on Ray's shoulder as he steps out of the tub on legs that are only steady because he won't _let_ them shake, and he shuts his eyes as Ray towels him dry.

"Fuck, I broke you," Ray says. "I think breaking your team leader is an automatic dishonourable discharge."

"You have not broken me," Brad says, and opens his eyes to lazily swat the back of Ray's head. "Your cock is not that amazing."

Ray's grinning. "Oh, it so is. My cock makes angels sing and icemen melt."

Brad just shakes his head slowly. "Shut the fuck up and come to bed," he says.

They kick off all the covers but a single sheet, and Ray settles into his usual far corner, one foot hooked over Brad's ankle. But, really, fuck that, Brad thinks, and he hauls Ray towards him, wraps his arm and leg over him, and buries his face in the back of Ray's neck.

"Go to sleep," he says, and, for once, Ray obeys without a single objection.

* * *

Brad has them at the main gate to Pt. Mugu naval base by 8am, despite Ray's objections. Brad's at the wheel, because otherwise they'd never have left the parking lot.

"Sergeant Brad Colbert, Corporal Ray Person," Brad tells the guard, and hands over their military IDs. "Corpsman Bryan's sponsoring us for access to the beach."

The guard scans down his list, and says, "Sure." He leans into the cab to hand back their IDs, along with a couple of temporary passes. He nods a quick acknowledgement to Ray, but it's Brad that he talks to. "Surf's good today. I'll be heading down later myself."

"See you there, then," Brad says, and tries not to wince at the squeal from the fanbelt when he drives away.

"He was hitting on you," Ray says, and settles back in his seat.

Brad glances over. "He wasn't."

"Oh, he so was."

"He was a top, Ray."

Ray gives him a sideways look. "Did you _see_ his hair? Way too long for a top."

Brad tries to remember what the guard looked like, but just has a vague memory of a around face and light brown hair.

Ray slides his shades on. "Just wait. Soon as he's off duty, he's gonna be down on the beach in shorts that'd make Rudy blush, batting his eyelashes at you."

"It was easier when you fucking subs had to wear an insignia," Brad says.

"Yeah, yeah, easier when we just stayed home and scrubbed the kitchen floor. Fuck off."

* * *

The beach is empty, and Brad leaves Ray setting up camp and heads straight for the ocean.

The guard had been right about the surf being good today, and Brad has a couple of hours where he forgets everything but his body, his balance, and his board, and he feels washed clean when he spots Doc sitting next to Ray, and he paddles back in.

Doc's holding a soda from the cooler Brad and Ray had brought, and he lifts it in greeting.

"Hey," Brad says, and helps himself to a bottle of water. "You coming in?"

Doc shakes his head. "Been spending a lot of time in the water lately."

"How come?" Brad says, and drains half the bottle. He hadn't realised how dehydrated he'd gotten, and makes a note to keep an eye on it.

Doc smiles, small and knowing, at his can. "Can't say," he says.

"Fuck," Ray says. "Doc's fucking Navy and he gets exciting, hush-hush missions. We're Recon and we aren't allowed to go anywhere without Humvees. Never thought I'd say this, but I should have joined the Navy."

"You could join once you're out of the Marines," Brad says, and Ray snorts.

"I've had enough of the fucking military for three lifetimes. I'm gonna be a pansy-ass college brat and drink lattes and talk about Descartes."

Brad finishes his water. "I'm heading back out," he says, but pauses. "You want to give it a try, Ray?"

"Fuck off," Ray says. "I'm staying here and doing fuck all, all day." He looks over his sunglasses at Brad. "And if you get so exhausted that you fall asleep before fucking me tonight, I will draw dicks all over your face. In permanent marker."

Doc drinks from his can, but it isn't enough to hide his smile.

"You had a lucky escape," Brad tells Doc. "I was close to asking you to collar him in Iraq."

"Couldn't," Doc says. "He was under my medical care."

"Brad wouldn't have let anybody else collar me," Ray says smugly. "He looooves me."

"Not even your mother loves you," Brad says, and heads back into the ocean.

Next time he comes ashore, Ray's stripped down to his trunks and is stretched out face down on a towel, talking to someone Brad vaguely recognises. It takes him a moment to place him as the guard at the gate.

Doc's starting up the grill, and Brad joins him. "Do you know him?" he asks, not bothering to explain who he means.

Doc shakes his head. "He seemed to know Ray."

Brad looks back over to them. The guard is sitting very close to Ray, and Brad's pretty sure he was right in thinking the guard was a top. It makes Brad want to whistle Ray over, have him kneel at Brad's feet until only an idiot could think he was available.

What he actually does is grab a bottle of sunblock from his bag and walk over to Ray and the guard.

Ray's constantly fidgeting feet have already dug a hole in the sand at the bottom of his towel, and Brad kicks the sand back in as he arrives. "Fuck off, Brad," Ray says without looking up. "Brad, this is Rob. Rob, Brad."

"Hey," Brad says briefly. "You wearing sunblock, Ray?"

"Yeah," Ray says.

"On your back?"

Ray twists around to look up at Brad. " _Yes_. Doc insisted. Jesus, when did you turn into a fucking mother hen?"

"I'm the one who'll have to put up with you bitching when you get burnt," Brad says, and pours sunblock into his hand. "So shut the fuck up and put up with it."

Ray sighs. "Go on, then," he says, all long-suffering patience, and Brad wipes a stripe of sunblock down Ray's spine.

He takes his time rubbing it in, as much massage as anything else, and Ray's a happily deflated mess by the time he's done.

"Fuck, homes," Ray sighs. "I'm not moving again."

"Yes, you are," Brad says. "You've got to put my sunblock on."

"Doc can do it," Ray says. "Or Rob."

"You're doing it," Brad says, and he puts enough command into his voice that Ray sits up, gives him an odd look that fades into understanding as he glances at Rob.

"Okay," Ray says, "I'm doing it."

He takes even more time over it than Brad had, rubbing the sunblock up Brad's neck and into his hairline, over his shoulders and chest, down his arms, until Brad finally says, "That'll do. Go and put the bottle away."

Ray rolls his eyes, but he does as he's told.

"Sorry," Rob says, once Ray's out of earshot. "I didn't realise he was yours."

"He is," Brad says.

Rob glances after Ray and says, "Do you ever lend him?"

For a moment, Brad just looks at Rob, and it's enough to make Rob lean back. "Never," Brad finally says.

"Right," Rob says, and shrugs. "Well, you've got good taste."

"I know," Brad says, and looks over to where Ray's walking back to them.

Brad leaves the surfing for a while, settling down next to Ray, and occasionally touching his back or shoulder or wrist. When Rob takes his own board down to the surf, Ray rolls over and grins at him. "I think he's got the message that you've got a sub," Ray says. His grin fades as he says, "But, y'know, if you want to..."

"Threesome?" Brad says, surprised.

"Fuck, no, not interested in that," Ray says, and he frowns, looks down to where his fingers are pleating and unpleating his towel. "Just- Fuck, look, if you want to fuck other subs, then I won't be a clingy bitch about it."

"I don't want to," Brad says, and watches Ray's smile return, twice as wide. "But if you want to fuck other tops, I _will_ be crazy possessive about it. I don't share."

"Damn," Ray says, "I was gonna proposition Doc. Now I'm not under his medical care and all."

"Do it and I'll chain you to the kitchen table for a month," Brad says, and leans in close enough to feel the heat radiating off Ray's skin. "But, just so you know, Rob _is_ a top, and it's you he was hitting on."

"He was?" Ray says. "Fuck, he's not exactly take-charge about it. Pansy-ass sub of a top."

"Not interested, then?" Brad asks.

Ray shrugs and settles back down. "What can I say? I'm into monogamy." He nudges Brad's ankle with his foot. "And I'm into _you_ , you dumb fuck. What would I want with a fucking sailorboy?"

* * *

While Brad's on the phone ordering room service, Ray's ratfucking the room.

"Jesus tittyfucking christ," Ray says, and Brad turns around to see him holding up a set of cuffs. "They call these cuffs? My _niece_ could get out of them, and she can't even put her blocks in the right-shaped holes yet."

There are four cuffs, padded, made of the same pink, silky nylon as the bedspread, with velcro fastenings and plastic clips. They're clearly designed to survive being thrown in the wash with the hotel's sheets and towels. 

"Send it up in fifteen minutes," Brad tells the woman taking his order, and hangs up. He leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and says, "Get naked."

"No fucking way," Ray says. "You are _not_ putting me in these cuffs. They're so useless it's embarrassing."

Brad raises his eyebrows. "I gave you an order, Ray," he says.

Ray glares at him for a long second, before grumpily jerking his t-shirt over his head. "I didn't know you were a fucking _sadist_ ," he says, and steps out of his jeans and underwear. "You kept that from me, Brad. I feel betrayed."

Brad holds out his hand. "Give me the cuffs, then get on the bed."

Ray does as he's told.

"On your back," Brad says, and walks over to the bed. "Left wrist."

Ray holds his hand out, and Brad wraps the cuff around his wrist and velcros it in place.

"I hate you," Ray says conversationally. "And I'm going to get my revenge on you. When you least expect it, I'll make you pay."

"They aren't that bad," Brad says, and wraps a cuff around Ray's right wrist.

"They're _soft_ ," Ray says, as though that explains everything.

Brad ignores him, cuffs his ankles, then folds his legs to clip his left wrist to his left ankle, and the same on his right side.

Ray tugs against the cuffs. "I can be out of these in two seconds," he says. "And that's if I take my time."

Brad rests his palm on Ray's chest, covering up the tattoo there. "But you aren't going to get out of them," he says, and Ray sighs.

"Same as I don't get out of the crappy shit you tie me up with every other time. Seriously, has nobody ever explained the fucking _point_ of bondage to you?"

"Laura always wanted to be able to get out," Brad says, and it isn't until he sees Ray frown that he realises he's never used her name between them.

"I'm not Laura," Ray says. "I like something I can fight against."

When Brad thinks about it, it makes so much sense that he's embarrassed he didn't realise it sooner. "I'll go shopping," he says.

"Good," Ray says. "Don't get any of those tacky fake-police things. I get enough uniforms every day."

"You really are a crappy sub," Brad says, and he doesn't bother trying to keep the affection out of his voice.

Ray shrugs. "Hey, I need a top who can actually _top_. Not my fault I demand the best."

"It's not just about dominance," Brad says.

Ray gives him a sceptical look.

"Sometimes it's about taking care of a sub," Brad says.

"Fuck that," Ray says. "I don't need you to take care of me. I don't _want_ you to take care of me."

The knock on the door interrupts Brad's reply. Before he answers the door, he pulls up a sheet to cover Ray and says, "I keep telling you. It's not about what you want."

The sub who wheels in their dinner is pretty, with barely noticeable eyeliner and a slim collar around his throat. He doesn't even glance at Ray, just tells Brad to leave the trolley outside when he's done and smoothly pockets his tip.

"It's not about what you want," Brad repeats, and wheels the trolley to the side of the bed. "It's about what I want." He rests his hand on the back of Ray's neck, encourages him to sit up, until Brad can slide in behind him, back against the headboard and Ray resting against his chest. "And sometimes I want to take care of you."

Brad can see the side of Ray's face, scrunched up with anxious expectation. "What the fuck are you planning?" Ray demands.

Brad's reply is to pick up a fry from one of the plates on the trolley, load it with ketchup, and hold it by Ray's mouth.

It takes a moment but Ray opens his mouth, takes the fry from Brad's hand, and eats it. "The fuck?" he says, while he's still chewing.

Brad just gets another fry, and feeds it to Ray.

He's halfway through the plate before Ray finally relaxes against him. "You're fucking weird," Ray says, and Brad strokes his hair.

* * *

They're nearly past Anaheim, Ray dozing while Brad drives, when Brad says, "Mind if we make a stop?"

Ray opens his eyes but he still sounds half-asleep as he says, "I don't need to piss." 

"Neither do I," Brad says. "It's not why I want to stop."

Ray waves a vague hand, yawns, and shuts his eyes again. "Do whatever the fuck you want," he says.

Brad's been this way often enough that he doesn't have to think about the route, about sliding into the right lane for turning, and he pulls up outside the neat little suburban home with the neat little lawn in front.

"Wake up," he says, and unfastens Ray's seatbelt.

"Fuck off," Ray says, and doesn't even open his eyes. "Said you could stop. Didn't say I'd move."

"Move," Brad says, and Ray yawns, stretches, and finally, reluctantly, slithers out of the truck.

"Where are we?" he asks, looking around, and Brad doesn't answer, just walks up the driveway and knocks on the door. He doesn't look around, but he can hear Ray following him, hear the elaborate yawn beside him and one pace behind.

And he can feel Ray snapping into alertness when Laura opens the door.

Brad's got photos of her all around his house. Of course Ray recognises her.

She's still so fucking pretty, with her hair a soft, blonde cloud escaping from its ponytail, but he doesn't feel that familiar kick of emptiness and loss and possessiveness. It takes him a moment to realise that what he's actually feeling is nostalgia.

"Brad!" she says, and a moment later, Jaime's standing behind her, beaming a welcome.

"We were passing through," Brad says. "Thought we'd stop in and say hi."

"Come on in," Jaime says, stepping back.

"We can't stay long," Brad says. "We're both on duty in the morning." He reaches back, rests his hand on the back of Ray's neck, and tugs Ray with him as he follows Jaime inside and Laura shuts the door behind them. "I don't think you've met Ray Person. My sub."

He can't miss the look that Jaime and Laura give each other, just as he can't miss the way Ray shoots him a quick sideways glance before settling with his head down and his hands behind his back.

"Can I get you a drink?" Jaime asks.

"Coffee would be good," Brad says. "It's been a long day."

"How about Ray?"

"Water for him," Brad says. "He's a hyperactive little shit even without caffeine."

"Decaf for me," Jaime tells Laura, and she vanishes without a word to get the drinks.

"Go and help her," Brad tells Ray.

Ray gives him a look that's equal parts panic and threat, then follows Laura.

"Actually," Brad says, leaning against the wall, "I wanted to ask you something."

"Sure," Jaime says, eager as always, as though any answer could make up for the fact that he and Laura had streamlined their lives by removing Brad.

"That year of college you did in England. How easily did the credits transfer?"

Jaime shrugs. "There was more paperwork and chasing than from an American college, but it wasn't impossible."

Brad thinks about it. "But yours was part of a planned exchange, wasn't it? What do you think it would be like if you did two years in England, then transferred to an American college?"

Jaime shakes his head, holds up his hands. "I've really got no idea," he says regretfully. "It was, what, eight, nine years ago? I'm sure things have changed since then."

"Yeah," Brad says, "they probably have."

"Are you looking at studying abroad?" Jaime asks.

"Not me," Brad says, and he'd leave it at that, except Jaime says, "Laura's got a friend who works in admissions at UCLA. You could email her? See what she thinks?"

"That'd be good," Brad says. "Thanks."

"Hang on, I'll just get her email address."

Brad stays leaning against the wall while Jaime vanishes into his study, and he can hear Ray and Laura talking.

"Have you been with him long?" Laura's asking.

"About three months," Ray says, and Brad frowns. It's been longer than that, nearer five months, but then he realises that it's been three months since he took off Ray's collar, and Ray isn't counting Iraq.

"How did you meet?" Laura asks, and it's the usual script on meeting someone's new sub or top, but Laura manages to sound like she's actually interested, like she actually _cares_.

"He beat me up, broke my finger, and dislocated my shoulder," Ray says easily, and the horrified silence stretches. "Training," Ray offers, eventually, and Brad just knows the way his grin is lighting up his face. "I'm a marine. And he taught me how to stop him from doing it again, so I forgave him."

Laura's giggle is so familiar it should hurt.

"After I broke his nose and gave him a black eye," Ray says. "Forgiveness comes at a price."

Brad grins at the memory. Ray's first week with Recon, still getting used to the way attacks came at any second of the day, and Brad had caught him off guard while he was fastening his boots. Ray had gone down hard, with a crunch that Brad could hear, but had come straight back up swinging. And he'd lasted until the end of the day, keeping up with the rest of the platoon, before Brad marched him off to get bandaged up.

It had been the kind of start that earned respect, ready for when word got out that Ray was a sub. Sometimes, Brad thinks Ray might have planned it, twisted little fuck that he is.

"Here," Jaime says, jolting Brad out of his memories to hand over a piece of paper. "Her name's Dorotea. I'm pretty sure she'll recognise your name."

"That sounds ominous," Brad says

"Laura wanted to set you up with her," Jaime says, and raises an eyebrow. "Although, looking at Ray, I don't think she's really your type."

" _I_ didn't realise Ray was my type until I was stuck with him," Brad says, and follows Jaime through to the lounge.

They chat easily, more easily than they have for years, until Ray comes through with a mug and a glass of water. He hands the mug to Brad, then sits next to him on the couch. Laura follows him, hands a mug to Jaime, then settles cross-legged at his feet.

Ray glances quickly at Brad, starts to slide off the couch, but Brad rests his hand on Ray's thigh, a silent order to stay where he is, and Ray settles back down.

They carry on chatting, although Laura only ever speaks after glancing up at Jaime and getting a quick nod. Brad tries to remember if she'd been so traditional and obedient when she was his. She can't have been, he decides. He'd have been bored to tears after two days of it.

Ray's tense beside him, and Brad gently nudges his shoulder, a reminder he's got Ray's three, and Ray slowly starts to relax, to join back in with the conversation. By the time Brad finishes his coffee and stands up, Ray's got Jaime laughing, and Laura's more relaxed than Brad's seen her for a long time.

"We should get going," Brad says, and there's the usual getting things together and "You should visit more often"s and "Come down to Oceanside some time"s, and when Laura's hugging Brad, she says, "I'm glad you've got him. You two fit."

"Thanks," Brad says, and he means it.

Once they're back in Ray's truck and heading to the freeway, Ray leans back in his seat and says, "Fuck." He looks over at Brad. "Seriously, Brad, _fuck_."

"Not now," Brad says, "I'm driving."

"Ha fucking ha." Ray runs his hand over his hair. "Don't drop me into your fucking middle-class, etiquette-driven, fucking wine drinking world without warning ever again."

"You survived," Brad says.

"Fuck," Ray says again. "I've spent too much time with fucking tops. I've got no fucking idea what subs talk about. And you middle-class shits are fucking weird at the best of times."

Brad reaches over and rubs Ray's thigh. "You did good. They liked you."

"Not the fucking point, Brad," Ray says, and he stays quiet until they're on the freeway. "I liked them, too," he finally says. "For civilian, middle-class dickfucks, they're not bad."

"They'll be flattered," Brad says. And if he told them, they would be, he realises. He glances over, and Ray's frowning out the window.

"I thought I'd hate her," Ray finally says. "And him. I mean, they completely fucked you over. But she's... Fuck, she's _sweet_. And he's not a total dicksuck."

"Yeah," Brad says, and taps his fingers on the steering wheel, says, "She'd never have survived as a marine sub. She's not hard enough."

"She'd have toughened up," Ray says. "Everybody does."

Brad shakes his head. "No. Not her." He doesn't know how much of his determined belief is knowledge of Laura, and how much is not wanting to think how she'd have changed if she'd stuck with him.

"She'd be nice to come home to. After deployment. Kind of soft and domestic."

"That's not what I want after deployment," Brad says, and glances over at Ray, who's still staring out the window, body tense. "It's not what I want any time."

Ray doesn't say anything, but he starts to relax, and Brad smiles.

* * *

On Tuesday, the LT pulls Brad into the company office and hands him a letter. "Congratulations," he says, and Brad quickly skims over the letter.

He looks up and raises his eyebrows. "Combat meritorious promotion to staff sergeant?" he says.

"It's what the letter says."

Brad reads it over again, and smiles. "Thank you, sir," he says, makes it as open and honest as he can, and Fick grins back at him.

"Keep it quiet until the official word goes up," Fick says. "I've got a couple more people to speak to. I'm going to enjoy handing out good news for a change."

"Yes, sir," Brad says, and he clamps down on his smile before he leaves. Even so, he catches Ray giving him suspicious looks.

Rudy's pulled in next. When he comes out, he's not smiling, but the tightness that's been in his face for months is gone. It's good to see.

Brad takes his team out to Pendleton's swamps for a quick hunter/hunted drill and sticks Ray on the opposing side. It's a mistake because Ray knows him too fucking well, knows exactly what tactics Brad's going to use, and Brad's side gets massacred.

Brad ends up buried in the mud by his own side while Ray watches and laughs. When Brad finally gets free, he grabs Ray and pulls him right down into the mud with him. Ray fights back, Lilley gets dragged in, Poke's next, and by the time they run back in to Margarita, they're all so coated in dirt that they're practically unrecognisable.

"One day," Ray says, "they'll send us somewhere that actually has Pendleton-like terrain, and we'll be so confused that we'll think we're still training."

" _You_ might be that confused," Brad says. "I think most of us have sufficient braincells to be able to differentiate between training and action."

"Differentiate my ass," Ray says, and shoulder-checks Brad hard enough that Brad actually staggers into Poke.

Brad wraps his arm around Ray's throat, but Ray gets in a nervestrike and wriggles free, twists around, and leaps onto Brad's back. He has his legs around Brad's waist, his hands at Brad's neck, and he's clinging on like a fucking limpet.

Brad reaches back, grabs the back of Ray's head. "I can flip you over my head right now," he says.

"Can't," Ray says, and tightens his hand around Brad's throat. "You're already unconscious. Also, if you did, I wouldn't suck your cock tonight."

Brad's got his mouth open to reply, when he realises the LT's right there, very carefully not smiling. "A word, Corporal Person," he says, and Ray slithers off Brad's back, clears his throat.

"Should I knock the worst off first, sir?" he asks, gesturing at his mud-coated uniform.

"I can cope with a little mud," Fick says, and nods towards the office. "Come on."

Ray follows, but turns back enough to raise his eyebrows in an unspoken question. Brad shrugs. He hasn't got a clue what the LT wants with Ray. Instead, he turns to his team and says, "Why the fuck are you all standing around staring? Go and get clean."

He glances after Ray, then follows the rest of his team.

He takes his time showering and everybody else has left by the time he starts pulling on his civvies. That's when Ray wanders in, looking as confused as Schwetje faced with a word of more than three syllables. "Fuck," Ray says, and sits down next to Brad.

"What?" Brad asks.

Ray hands Brad a letter, streaked with dirt from where Ray's been holding it. "They made me sergeant," he says.

Brad grins. "About fucking time," he says, as he reads over the letter. "You did the command course before Iraq."

"Yeah, but..." Ray looks up at him. "I'm a sub. And I'm out in less than three months."

Brad hands the letter back. "Maybe they're trying to persuade you to stay. You're not completely useless as a marine."

Ray looks up, eyes narrowed. "What did you put in your report about me?"

Brad shrugs. "The truth. That you're a decent NCO, with the potential to be a decent senior NCO, if you stop screwing around. And you're the best RTO in the battalion. I didn't mention the Ripped Fuel, the tank-fucking or the obsessions with NAMBLA and Starbucks."

"You didn't just say nice shit because you're topping me?"

"I wrote the report when I wasn't," Brad says. "And with the 2483s filed, nobody's going to be giving my report much credence, anyway. I'm pretty sure it's the LT you've got to thank."

"Huh," Ray says, and leans back against the wall. "Maybe I should stay in," he says.

"No," Brad says, and Ray looks up at him, frowns.

"Don't worry, I'll file my (d) without making a scene, if I do stay in."

"No, you fucking won't," Brad says, without thinking. "You're not filing your (d) until I say you can. And you're not staying in the Corps."

"Why the fuck not?" Ray demands. "You think I couldn't make it?"

"Of course you could," Brad says. "You just wouldn't be _you_ by the end of it."

Ray doesn't look convinced.

"You know what career marines are like," Brad says. "It's not you."

Ray sighs. "Suppose so. But- fuck, it's something I'm _good_ at. I'm a fucking Recon sergeant, Brad. I'm a sub, and I'm a Recon sergeant. And I haven't got a fucking clue what I'm going to do when I'm out."

"You'll go to college. That gives you time to figure it out." Brad runs his hand over Ray's hair, and immediately regrets it as he's coated in sticky, crumbling mud. "And if you're still thinking of the Corps after that, re-enlist. Hell, go in as an officer. That'll fuck 'em up."

Ray leans into his hand, and smiles. "Yeah. You'd have to salute me. That would be fucking _awesome_." He sits up, takes a deep breath. "So. Choose a college that'll take me, find an apartment I can stand to live in, get a job to pay for it. Can't be harder than invading Iraq in a Humvee."

"You're not finding an apartment," Brad says. "You're staying with me. Fuck, you don't even have to get a job unless you want to." He slides his hand down the back of Ray's head, holds his neck, and feels Ray softening into his touch. "I told you. You're not filing your (d), and I'm going to look after you."

"I don't _want_ to be looked after," Ray says.

"Then get a job and pay me rent." Brad shrugs, and gently scratches Ray's neck, feels him shiver slightly. "You're not walking out on me, though."

Ray sighs. "Fine, whatever. I'll suffer the indignity of living in a nice house and having a hot marine top, even though the other kids'll tease me." Ray stands up, and pulls his blouse and undershirt over his head. "For now, I'm going to shower because I've got mud in places that'd make sand blush." He stretches and dirt crumbles off his skin into dust. "I'll be home fifteen minutes after you, if you want to get dinner going."

"I'm going to my parents' tonight," Brad says. "They wanted to give me a celebration dinner."

"Celebration?" Ray asks, and Brad realises he hasn't mentioned it.

"I got the bump, too. Staff."

"Fuck, that's awesome!" Ray reaches out to punch Brad's arm, but pulls back. "Yeah, I won't get mud all over you. This time. Hey, and if you're an E-6, you can _totally_ afford to support me in luxury. I might not even bother with college - just lounge around all day on silk sheets, eating grapes."

"Satin sheets, drinking grape juice," Brad offers, and bumps his arm against Ray's fist. "Now get a fucking move on. You'll make a bad impression on my parents if we're late."

Ray's eyes widen for a splitsecond before he says, "Give me five minutes."

* * *

The closer they get to Brad's parents' house, the more tense Brad gets, until Ray finally says, "Look, I know I'm not the sub your parents dreamed of for you, but I do know how to use a knife and fork. I won't completely humiliate you."

Brad blinks, looks over. "That's not what I'm worried about," he says.

"So you are worried." Ray grins triumphantly. "C'mon, tell your Ray-Ray all about it."

Brad sighs, and pulls over, ignoring the annoyed honk from the driver behind him. He rests his hands on the steering wheel and keeps looking ahead as he says, "My parents. They're switches."

Ray stares at him for a moment, then lets out a massive, snorting laugh. "Holy _fuck_ , could your family _be_ any more of a fucking liberal, wine-sipping, Green-voting stereotype? How have they not disowned you yet?"

Brad's mouth twitches into a smile as he turns to look at Ray. "So they'll probably like you for being a pain-in-the-ass failure as a traditional sub."

"They'll like me because I'm fucking awesome," Ray says, and punches Brad's shoulder. "Get moving, you fucker, or we'll be late."

* * *

Brad should have been suspicious when Ray grinned at him as he got out of the car. Should have been even more suspicious when Ray didn't stop grinning as they walked up the garden path and waited for someone to answer the door.

He'd let his situational awareness slip, and now he's being bitten in the ass for it.

Because Ray is standing there, head down and hands behind his back, looking _nervous_ , the little shit, and glancing at Brad before he gives monosyllabic answers to questions from Brad's parents.

It gets worse when they go through to the kitchen to eat.

Ray kneels the fuck down beside Brad's chair.

Brad's parents are staring at him as though he's stepped out of the dark ages, full on, 'We're not angry; we're just disappointed,' and Brad would slap Ray around the back of his head if it wouldn't just confirm his parents' worst fears.

Instead, he reaches out to grab the scruff of Ray's neck, and Ray fucking _flinches_. Glances up quickly at Brad, eyes wide, before biting his lower lip and looking down again, entire body stiff with terror.

Brad sits back in his chair, and slowly gives in to the smile creeping over his face. "Okay, you little punk. You win the Oscar for Best Supporting Abused Sub. Now stop torturing my parents and behave like yourself."

Just like that, Ray's relaxed and looking up at him, grinning wide and triumphant.

"Sit at the table like a human," Brad says, and nudges Ray's thigh with his foot. 

Ray obeys, thudding into the chair next to Brad's. "Sorry," he says to Brad's mom. "I owed him for something he did the other day."

"What?" Brad asks.

"Those pink cuffs," Ray says, as though it's obvious. "I said I'd get you back."

"You're pathetic," Brad says.

"I'm awesome," Ray says, and looks at Brad's mom. "Anything I can do to help, Mrs. Colbert?" he asks.

"Dr. Colbert," she says, "but call me Rebecca. No, honey, you stay where you are. Brad, can you open the pinot grigio in the fridge?"

Brad very carefully doesn't look at Ray as he crosses the kitchen and gets the bottle from the fridge. "Beer in the garage?" he asks, instead, and, once he's opened the wine, he heads out into the garage to grab a couple of bottles.

He's only gone a few minutes but, when he comes back into the kitchen, Ray's having a heated discussion with Brad's father about the relative merits of Les Pauls and Stratocasters.

Brad opens his beer, takes a long drink, and just watches. Ray's gesticulating wildly, face showing every darting thought, and Brad fucking loves him.

"I like him," his mom says quietly.

"You won't say that after another hour," Brad says, but he's pretty sure she will.

* * *

The next morning, he grabs the LT as they're heading out for a run. "I'm interested in the secondment," he says, and the LT nods, gives a slow smile.

"You'll do well," he says, and doesn't mention Ray.

* * *

Brad's half-expecting some kind of arduous selection process - interviews and exercises and spelling tests to make sure he doesn't come back sticking extraneous 'u's in everything. Instead, he hears nothing for a month, then gets a letter telling him he's being seconded to the Royal Marines.

He's not sure if it's a sign he did well in Iraq or a sign that Command wants to kick him far, far away.

Knowing the Corps, it's probably a sign they forgot they were supposed to send somebody to Britain and just grabbed the first name from the pile.

He reads the letter again, then puts it away where Ray won't find it, and keeps on getting ready for Fick's paddle party.

He and Ray both drink too much, but so does everybody else, and by the time Fick's seated in the middle of the room, Brad's completely forgotten the story he was going to tell. He wraps his arm around Ray's neck, leans on him too heavily, and listens to the stories everybody else is telling. Some of them mean nothing to him, but they evidently do to Fick, because he smiles and looks thoughtful and occasionally flat-out laughs.

Then Jacks hands the paddle to Ray. "In Iraq," Ray says, "just after Brad handed in his fucked up excuse for a 2483, I had to go through the bullshit of promising the LT - the captain - that Brad wasn't forcing me into anything. As if he fucking could."

Brad briefly tightens his arm around Ray's throat and gets a sharp fingerstrike in the kidneys for his trouble.

Fick's already got his head in his hands, but Brad can see that he's blushing, and it's kind of ominous. "Anyway," Ray continues, "the LT does the necessary, blah, blah, what the fuck ever, I swear I'm not being raped, sir. And he's just about to sign my 2483, when he asks if I'd prefer to wear _his_ collar."

Brad stiffens, and in an hour, Fick won't be his platoon commander, and he can-

Ray elbows him in the ribs, and Brad takes a deep, careful breath, but he's still glaring at Fick as Ray carries on. "Says he thinks it'd give me better protection if I was subbing for an officer instead of a sergeant - which shows how retarded your average officer is, if even one of the best thinks something stupid like that. Anyway, I say no, he gives me that fucking _concerned_ look of his, and I swear, for a moment I thought he was going to refuse to sign. But then he just sighs, signs off on it, and tells me the offer's still open if things get too bad."

"I thought it was just protecting Person's ass," Fick objects, hands still covering his face, and flaming blush spreading down his neck. "How was I supposed to know it was whatever passes for true love between you two?"

"Fuck," Ray says, "it took _Brad_ a couple of months to figure out he was in love with me, so I can't blame you for that. But you were willing to tell Command you'd collared me just because you thought it'd make life easier for me. That's fucking awesome. I mean, at least Brad was getting fucking amazing sex out of it."

Brad puts his hand over Ray's mouth. "Give the paddle to Budweiser," he says, and Ray sighs, but does as he's told.

When Lovell hands Brad the paddle, the first story that comes to mind is Fick's reaction when Brad said he and Ray wouldn't be filing their (d)s. But he's not telling that one, not after Ray's, so he thinks a second longer, and comes up with being ordered away from the bomb and preserving Baghdad property prices, and Fick looks relieved.

In the cab home, after they've dropped off Poke, Brad says, "You didn't tell me the LT had offered you a collar."

Ray shrugs. "I thought you might tell me to take it."

Brad probably would have. "I'm glad you didn't," he says.

* * *

There's a parcel waiting in Brad's pigeonhole, and it's about damn time.

He'd ordered these online weeks ago, but the manufacturer had trouble getting some of the parts he'd specified, and Brad hadn't been willing to compromise. He'd gotten a discount for the wait, though. Considering the cost of the things, that almost balanced out the irritation of waiting.

Almost.

He doesn't open the parcel until he's in the team leaders' office, and he can't help smiling when he gets his hands on the contents.

Fuck, yes. Let's see Ray whine about _these_.

A double layer of black leather, two inches wide, lined with black lambskin and fastened with a nickel-free, two-part, locking buckle. (It was the buckle that had caused the delay. Apparently, two-parts were difficult to get hold of, especially nickel-free, but the one-parts were too raised for Brad's liking. And he's not getting a buckle with nickel when he knows that Ray has to get his own chain for his dogtags, or he ends up with a cracked, oozing line around his neck.) 

There's a nickel-free D-ring sandwiched between the two layers, and Brad inspects the stitching to make sure it's solid. Yeah, he decides. Ray can fight against these as much as he wants, and he's not going to get anywhere.

He looks up as Eric comes into the office.

"Been shopping?" Eric asks, and Brad leans back in his chair, leaving the cuffs visible.

"Yeah," he says. "The problem with topping a Recon marine is that they're difficult to keep tied up."

Eric raises his eyebrows at the cuffs. "They should do it," he says, and gestures at them. "Can I?"

"Yeah, sure."

Eric picks up one of the cuffs and studies it. "Nice," he finally pronounces. "Sofia'd like something like that. Except she'd want them white, and probably fur-lined." They share a look, _Fucking subs and their fancies, what you gonna do?_ , and Brad knows that Eric loves the way Sofia looks in white, probably more than Sofia does. "How much were they?" Eric asks.

Brad tells him, and Eric puts the cuffs down.

"Good thing about collaring someone who _isn't_ a Recon marine," he says. "You don't have to pay that much to keep them tied up. Ten bucks at Walmart'll do it."

Brad shrugs and puts the cuffs back in their packaging. "I've still got to get the padlocks," he says. "Ray's lousy at picking locks, so ten bucks at Walmart should cover that, at least." He locks the cuffs in his desk drawer, and stands up. "We're taking our new LT down to the beach for a fin," he says. "Might stage a little emergency while we're down there, see how he shapes up. Any word on yours?"

Eric shakes his head. "We're supposed to be getting him next week, once he finishes his jump school. Haven't found anyone who's served with him before, so I've got no idea what to expect."

"He can't be worse than Captain America," Brad offers.

"Don't fucking challenge the universe like that," Eric says, and sits down at the desk next to Brad's, boots up the computer. "You know the Corps can always come up with something worse than you thought possible."

* * *

Stafford pretends his tank's faulty, pretends he's panicking, and the new LT, Kumar, gets Christeson buddy-breathing with him within ten seconds, gets him calmed down within thirty.

Garza decides his BCD won't inflate, and stands on the ocean floor, waving, until Kumar unfastens Garza's weight belt, and then Garza's buoyancy is so positive that staying down is a constant battle. Chaffin, on the other hand, stuck with carrying Garza's weight belt, has his BCD fully inflated and still has a tendency to sink if he doesn't keep finning.

Ray goes for something much more dramatic. He appears to slice his wrist on his own dive knife, panics, ignores his safety stops, and comes down with an Oscar-winning case of the bends. Which is impressive, considering they haven't gone beyond the NDL.

Brad surfaces to find Kumar treading water next to Ray, mask pulled down around his neck, demanding, "Is this real or another test?" His hand's already on his radio, ready to call for medical assistance, and Ray promptly stops moaning and curling in on himself.

"Test!" he says, quickly. "Totally a test!"

Pulling an unplanned drill on an LT is one thing. Calling in a chopper and getting pointlessly medevacced is another.

"Thank fuck," Kumar says, and by this time, the rest of the platoon has surfaced. "I was starting to think you were all incompetent fucks and Fick had lied to me about you being the best platoon in First Recon." He hands his tank up to the marine manning one of the dive RHIBs, and says, "Stafford, Garza, Person. You're finning back. You've got enough air?"

All three admit they've got enough air.

"I'll buddy Person," Brad says.

"No," Kumar says. He glances around the platoon, sighs, and motions for his tank to be handed back down. "I will."

Brad's RHIB heads straight for shore, while Mike Wynn's shadows the divers. By the time Ray walks out of the ocean, breathing heavily and fins clutched in one hand, Brad's out of his wetsuit, dried off and kit packed away.

He wants to check Ray over, but Kumar's giving him a measuring look, and it makes Brad wary enough that he just yells for Ray to get a move on and stop holding them up even more.

Once they're back at Margarita, kit rinsed, checked and stowed, Kumar pulls Brad into the company office.

"I'll be blunt," he says. "I don't like paired tops and subs serving together, especially not when one is in direct command of the other."

"Yes, sir," Brad says, and he's already trying to figure out where this is going.

"Why did you offer to buddy Person?"

"I'm his team leader, sir," Brad says. "It was my failure to control his behaviour that led to him getting punished. Additionally, I'm the strongest diver in the platoon. It made sense for me to be along."

"This is the problem," Kumar says, studying Brad's face. "I can't tell whether that's the complete truth. I suspect you can't tell whether that's the complete truth."

Brad knows it isn't the complete truth, but he's not saying anything.

Kumar sighs. "Okay. It's only six weeks until Person's out, and we're not going to be deployed in that time. I'm not going to rearrange your team."

Brad doesn't let his relief show.

"But I want you to keep your relationship off the base. As much as you can."

"Yes, sir," Brad says. "Is that all, sir?"

"No." Kumar reaches into his desk drawer and hands over a plane ticket. "In their wisdom, Command are flying you to Britain the day after Christmas. I did point out that puts it nicely in the middle of Hanukkah, but..." He shrugs.

Brad's used to it, same as he's used to having to fold himself up into too-small airplane seats. He's still going to try to change his flight, and he'll pay for the upgrade himself if that's what it takes to get himself into business class. "Thank you, sir," he says.

"Dismissed," Kumar says, and Brad nods before leaving.

Kumar's not bad, he decides. Fick knew from experience that Brad and Ray could still work together, despite everything else. Kumar can only go by appearances - and by appearances, Ray's a cocky little shit who pushes every line as far as he can.

To be fair, that's exactly what Ray _is_. He just happens to be competent enough to make it worth putting up with his shit.

Brad shoves the plane ticket deep in his pocket, next to the cuffs, as he approaches his car. Ray leans over from the passenger seat to beep the horn, and, as Brad slides in behind the wheel, Ray says, "Jesus fuck, how long did it take you to suck the LT's cock and make him happy again?"

Brad holds Ray's jaw and kisses him, deep and filthy, and Ray's blinking when he pulls back.

"Fuck," Ray says, "I can _taste_ his cock in you. You could have brushed your teeth."

"We're stopping at Walmart on the way home," Brad says.

He really wants those padlocks.

* * *

By the time Brad undoes the cuffs, Ray's sweaty and sticky, coated in semen and saliva and fuck knows what, and his grin is splitting his face in two.

"Fuck," he says, and flops back on the floor. " _Fuck_ ," he repeats. "You have been holding _back_. That's totally unfair."

Brad doesn't bother even trying to keep the smug smile off his own face. "You like the cuffs, then?"

"They are _awesome_ ," Ray pronounces. "They're the best cuffs ever."

Brad licks his lips, takes a deep breath, and says, "Want a matching collar?"

Ray's silent.

"I'm going to Britain. Two years." Brad clears his throat, shrugs. "I've gotten used to having you around."

"Right," Ray says. "College?"

"I checked into it. There's a couple of online programs, or you can go to a British university and transfer the credits when we come back."

"Right," Ray says again. When Brad glances over, he's frowning. "Fuck," he says, and scrubs at his face. "You've fucked all my braincells to shit, and now I have to _think_."

Brad rolls to his feet. "Didn't realise it would be so difficult," he says, and he tells himself that he's not a little bit worried, a little bit offended.

"Oh, I'm going with you," Ray says. "I've just got you properly trained. It's just... I mean, collar? Last time, it didn't work too well. We should stick with what we've got."

"I can only take you if you're collared," Brad says, and he can _see_ Ray closing himself off.

"Right," Ray says, and pushes himself to his feet. "In that case, I'll stay here. Babysit your house or whatever."

"Ray-" Brad starts, but Ray turns to look at him, and what's on his face makes Brad shut up.

"No," Ray says. "Not another fucking circumstances thing. I'm not getting back after two years and you take off my collar and act like it's nothing. I'm not fucking doing that. You collar me, it's because _you_ want to. Not because there's shit going on outside of us."

"It's not that," Brad says, and Ray snorts.

"If you weren't going to Britain, would you be offering me a collar right now?" he asks.

Brad wants to lie, wants to say he would, but he can't, so he doesn't say anything.

"Right," Ray says, and he holds out his wrists. "Can you take these off? I'm going to shower." He looks at Brad. "And then I'm going to barracks. I'll see you in the morning."

"Don't," Brad says. He unlocks the cuffs, takes them off, but keeps hold of Ray's wrists. "Stay here. I'll sleep on the couch, if..." If that makes it easier; if it'll make you stay; if it'll make you happy.

The corner of Ray's mouth lifts. "While I'd like to see you managing to fit on it, no. I need- Fuck, I just need to not be here."

"I'll come to your barracks room."

"I need to not be near _you_ ," Ray says, and pulls his wrists away. "Fuck, Brad, I love you. You get that, right? And you keep fucking with my head and my fucking _heart_ , and, I swear, you're turning me into a fucking stereotypical weepy sub and I won't let you fucking do that."

"I love you, too," Brad says, and it shouldn't be so fucking easy to say.

"Then stop being so fucking selfish," Ray says, and walks out the bedroom door.

Brad doesn't follow him.

* * *

Brad sleeps, eventually. He's gotten so used to Ray's snuffling and regular trips to piss and ability to steal all the blankets even when he's burning up that the peace is disquieting.

There's no mug of coffee waiting for him when he goes downstairs. On his morning run, there's no Ray to moan and complain and then sprint past him on the last hundred yards. There's no company in the shower and there's nobody stealing his toast. He's ready an hour early because there's no Ray to slow him down and make him laugh and generally get in the way.

He heads in to Margarita anyway, and Ray's truck's already in the parking lot.

There's no sign of Ray himself until Brad looks into the company office. Ray's leaning over Kumar's desk, sketching something out on a notepad. "So the civvie donkey di- er, CB antennae, were attached here, ran the cabling through here-"

"Did you think about the possibility of a break here?" Kumar takes the pen from Ray and makes a mark.

"Yeah, but the other option would have taken it through the hinge here, putting it under too much stress."

"Got it," Kumar says, and looks up to see Brad. "Morning, staff sergeant."

"Morning, sir," Brad says, and when Ray looks up, he's pale and he's got that jitter about him that Brad knows comes from too little sleep and too much caffeine.

"I need you to get your guys over to the CIF at some point today," Kumar says. "We're finally being issued with the new digis."

"And we're not even the last in the Corps to get them!" Ray says. "It's almost like they really love us."

Brad tries not to smile. "I'll go and get mine now," he says. "Give them extra time to find something long enough for me." He glances at Ray and says, "Do you need Person, or should I give them a headstart on getting something small enough for him?"

Kumar gives him a sharp look, but says, "Take him. He's breathing coffee all over me."

On the drive over to the CIF, Ray talks about how it would have been useful to have the hi-tech super-camo _before_ they invaded a country, except they probably would have been issued with arctic camo or urban or one of those fucking neon things that people wear to raves, then diverts onto how many military items have been repurposed for raves, everything from boots to chemlights and, really, why don't they just start taking fucking rifles dancing, which is all a little too _Full Metal Jacket_ , and Ray doesn't shut up until they've been parked outside the CIF for five minutes. "So, are we going to get our fancy new clothes or not?" he demands.

"I can't imagine why they're bothering to issue you with them," Brad says, and it's not what he meant to say. "You'll be gone in a few weeks."

"So will you," Ray says. "Fuck, are you going to have to wear British uniform? Those green berets that they get all up themselves about?"

"No," Brad says, and gets out the car. "I'm still a US Marine."

They're too early, and the CIF isn't open yet, so they join the line that's already forming. Ray lounges up against the wall, but Brad stays standing, finds himself settling into parade rest without even thinking about it.

"Are you going to have to learn British drill and shit?" Ray asks. "Because learning one kind of drill is a waste of time - learning some other country's drill is as much use as a POG with an M-40."

"I expect I'll find out when I'm there," Brad says, and he's on the verge of saying more when the door to the CIF swings open, and Ray barges past him to beat him inside.

They're early enough that they've beaten the crowds, but they also seem to have beaten the civvie clerk's coffee. It takes forever to get the sizes sorted, then proving their qualifications for belt colour, and then the clerk balks at the thought of handing over the new uniforms without getting the old ones in exchange there and then.

"Look," Ray says, "I can strip off to give you the uniform that I'm wearing, but my top here gets pissed if I start flashing my goodies to every passing barracks queen."

The clerk finally agrees on the condition that they sign in triplicate to acknowledge that the cost of any unreturned uniform will be deducted from their pay. And then he insists that, as his registered top, Brad countersigns for Ray.

"Isn't this an affront to your civil rights?" Brad asks Ray.

Ray grins. "You earn more than me. You're totally paying for it."

They're on their way back to the jeep, laden down with pants and blouses and undershirts and all the rest of the shit, when Ray says, "Hang on, I'm going to the shitter."

"Seriously? You can't wait till we're back at Margarita?"

"To get _changed_ , homes. C'mon, tell me you don't want to walk in there in all your new digis. Shiny new things, and we're the first to have them? It's show-off time!"

"It's not as though they're a new weapon," Brad says, but he dumps all but one set of uniform in the jeep, and follows Ray to the head.

* * *

They're greeted with wolf-whistles and jeers as they march into Margarita and give Kumar the smartest salute he's ever going to get from a Recon Marine.

"I can't even begin to count your uniform infractions," Mike says. "Sloppily rolled sleeves, creases everywhere, and your pants are bloused unevenly. If you were recruits, you'd be getting thrashed."

"I'm nearly a civvie and he's nearly British," Ray says. "You'd start international _and_ domestic incidents."

"British?" Poke says, and Brad gives Ray a hard look.

Ray shrugs. "You never said it was a secret."

"I'm being seconded to the Royal Marines for two years," Brad says, and he's bombarded with questions.

The one that stands out is Trombley's, "Why the fuck did you volunteer for that?"

Brad knows exactly why he volunteered but it's not something he's going talk about, so he just raises his voice and says, "You've all got to get over to CIF today to get your own digis. Last one back here's field daying the showers."

After the stampede out the door, Kumar says, "We've had a new batch of PRC-1088s delivered, and I don't like the look of them. I want you and Person to check them out."

"Yes, sir," Brad says. "Ray, grab my laptop and meet me in stores."

Brad's sitting at the battered metal desk, still flicking through menus on the first radio, when Ray joins him. He connects the laptop to the radio and checks the firmware. It's three versions out of date, so he sets the upgrade running.

Ray hooks a chair with his foot and sits down next to Brad, starts looking over another radio. "I see what the LT means," he says, and tilts the radio towards Brad. "These things are rated to be tougher than us, and this one's got a fucking dent in it. Fuck knows what's going on inside." He pulls out his Leatherman and starts unscrewing the case.

Brad keeps his eyes on his laptop screen, even though there's nothing to see but a steadily increasing line of exclamation marks, and says, "Do you know why I asked for the British secondment?" In his peripheral vision, he's aware of Ray shrugging.

"Good for your career. Gets you out of Recon until there's been a full cycle of officers so the ones you've pissed off are gone. And, more importantly, the ones who pissed you off are gone." Ray looks up from his radio. "I figured there wasn't just one reason."

"One big reason," Brad says, and he looks up, meets Ray's eyes. "Fick said I could only take you if I collared you."

He watches it sink in, watches Ray's grin slowly spread across his face, until he finally throws his head back and laughs, and Brad feels himself smiling in response. Eventually, Ray wipes away his tears, and says, "Brad, man, you are such a fucking _pussy_. I mean, seriously. Two years in fucking _England_ instead of just admitting that you're totally into me and want me around all the time."

"I'm totally into you and want you around all the time," Brad repeats, deadpan. "Do you want that matching collar or not?"

Ray leans back in his chair, looks thoughtful. "I don't know," he says. "I think I should make you grovel. Make you get down on your knees and beg."

"Really," Brad says.

"I'm a fucking _catch_ ," Ray says. "My mom _and_ my sister say so."

"They might not be entirely wrong," Brad concedes. "Last chance - do you want to wear my collar?"

"Fuck it," Ray says. "I'm not getting any younger, and I might not get another offer before I lose my boyish figure. Collar me up, homes."

There's a bundle of cable ties sitting on one of the shelves. Brad has to thread two together to make it long enough, and he doesn't bother with the duct tape tag, but it's similar enough to the first collar that Ray's mouth twists a little as he tugs at it.

"I want a real collar before we go to England," he says.

"Demanding little shit," Brad says, and kisses him. "You're not getting any say in what it looks like. You have fuck-awful taste."

Ray grins. "I want it to _sparkle_."

* * *

Ray keeps the cable tie collar tucked under his shirt, even after they've filled in their TS-2483(c)s and handed them in to Kumar.

Kumar glances over them, scrawls his signature at the bottom of each, then says, as an afterthought, "I don't think anybody _could_ pressure Person into something he didn't want but, as a formality, can you confirm you're entering into this arrangement of free will?"

"I promise he's still not raping me," Ray says, and Brad nudges him. "Totally free will, sir. He's not making inappropriate use of his rank to intimidate me."

Kumar isn't quite smiling as he says, "Congratulations, then. I'll chase the paperwork through, and hopefully you'll get Person's plane ticket before he joins the real world."

"Thank you, sir," Brad says, and Ray echoes it as they leave the office.

They don't tell anybody, but Ray's suddenly getting tackled more often. It seems like he can't turn a corner without Christeson or Trombley or Poke jumping him and trying to get him down. It isn't even lunchtime before Rudy joins in, and that's the point when Ray finds himself on the ground, kicking and writhing as he's held down and Poke pulls down the neck of his undershirt.

"I fuckin' knew it, dog!" Poke says triumphantly, and jumps back as Rudy lets Ray up. "You are a sad, sub-whipped man, Brad, if you can't get the ass without having to stick a collar on it."

"You're just jealous, Poke," Ray says, straightening his shirt and blouse. This time, he leaves the collar visible, and Brad likes the look of it. "You can admit it. I won't think any less of you."

"What the hell would I want with a scrawny-assed white boy?" Poke says, but he ruffles Ray's hair, before Ray ducks away. "Nah, congratulations, man." He punches Brad's shoulder. "If he's what you want, you've got fucked-up taste, but I hope it works out."

Rudy envelops Ray in a crushing hug, beaming at Brad as he does so. "I'm happy for you both," he says. "This is your good karma coming back to you, a warrior brother to share your life!"

"You are such a fucking _sub_ , Rudy," Ray says, fighting his way free, but he's grinning.

"I just want to hear an American accent when I'm in Britain," Brad says, and pulls Ray to him, wraps his arm around Ray's neck.

"Just for that," Ray says, "I'm going to talk limey."

"You can barely even talk American, fucknuts," Brad says. "Don't make your brain explode."

* * *

Ray calls his mom while Brad's cooking dinner.

"Yeah, so... Brad collared me. Yes, again. Well, no, he hasn't got me a real collar ye- We've put the paperwork in, Mom, it's official- He's _going_ to get me a real collar. He's getting it custom, didn't want to get it made without knowing I'd say yes. Look, I swear, Mom, it's real. He's taking me to fucking _England_ with him, Mom! Yes, I know I shouldn't use that kind of language to you..." A final sigh and Ray holds the receiver out to Brad. "She wants to talk to you."

Brad hands the spatula to Ray, breathes deeply, and takes the phone. "Good evening, Mrs. Person."

"I don't trust you with my boy, Colbert."

It's not a promising start. "I can understand that, Mrs. Person. Ray and I have had several misunderstandings."

"Because you're an emotionally-constipated fuckwit," Ray says, loudly enough that his mom can hear.

"Because, as your son informs me, I'm an emotionally-constipated fuckwit," Brad says, and Ray's mom lets out a familiar snort of laughter. "But I'm very fond of him."

"That means he loves me," Ray yells.

"And I have every intention of putting up with him for a long time to come."

"I still don't trust you," she says, "and I don't like that you're taking him to England. But I guess he's old enough to make his own decisions, and at least you've got your own house and car." She pauses. "All your own teeth?"

"Apart from one," Brad says. "I got hit in the face by a helicopter."

"Good enough," she says. "Kids. Would they be raised Christian or Jewish?"

Brad blinks. "We haven't really thought that far. I suspect they'd be raised as marines."

"We'll argue about that further down the line," she says. "Okay, put my boy back on."

Brad swaps the phone for the spatula and gives the stir-fry a shake-up as he listens to Ray's conversation.

"Yeah, Mom," Ray finally says, "I'm happy. Yeah, love you, too. Speak soon."

"I see where you get it from," Brad says, and starts dishing out the stir-fry.

"My sheer, undiluted awesomeness?" Ray says, and grabs a couple of cans of beer from the fridge.

"Something like that," Brad says, and smiles.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Their flight out is at ass o'clock, but that isn't enough to put off all the well-wishers. Ray's mom and sister can't make it, but Brad's parents are there, along with a contingent from Recon. 

The Recon guys are a surprise. The farewell party was last night, and Brad's hangover is so bad that he's surprised _he_ managed to make it to the airport. Ray's still drunk enough that the hangover'll probably kick in somewhere over Kansas. Brad's made sure he's got plenty of painkillers for when it does.

At least Ray gets to travel in comfortable clothes. Brad's stuck in uniform.

"I swear, man," Poke says, "if I hear you let us down in front of those limey-ass pansies, I will make your life _hell_ when you get back."

"Me, too," Rudy says, but he's leaning so heavily on Poke's shoulder, that it's not as intimidating as it would be normally. " _OO-RAH!_ " he yells.

It's echoed by the others, and Brad winces at the reminder of just how epic his headache is. "Get out of here," he says. "I've got family to deal with." But he gives Poke and Rudy bruising hugs, doesn't object when Stafford belches in his face, and thumps Trombley's head with something approaching respect. "I'll probably see you guys in Iraq," he says.

"Screwby," Stafford says, then lurches off in search of somewhere to throw up.

Brad's parents are waiting for him by security, his mom holding a couple of paper cups of coffee. She presses one into Ray's hands and gives the other to Brad.

"You're the best mom-in-law ever," Ray says blearily, and pretty much inhales his coffee.

They wait in comfortable silence, slowly moving towards the head of the queue, until it's time for Brad and Ray to step through. His mom gives them each a hug, says, "Take care of each other," and steps back.

"Call us when you land," his dad says, and Brad promises he will.

He rests his hand on the back of Ray's neck, slides his thumb under the black leather collar, and keeps it there as he hands over their passports and boarding passes.

"Your sub?" the TSA agent asks, glancing over at them.

"Yeah," Brad says.

She nods, hands the paperwork back. "Go to the left."

"C'mon, fucknuts," Brad says softly.

"Screw you, you fucking retard," Ray says, and nudges his head against Brad's shoulder.

Yeah, Brad thinks. This isn't going to be too bad.


End file.
